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BEATEN   PATHS; 


OR, 


A   WOMAN'S   VACATION 


BY 


ELLA   W.  THOMPSON. 


*'  It  is  a  strange  thing  that  in  sea  voyages,  where  there  Is  nothing 
to  be  seen  but  sky  and  sea,  men  should  make  diaries;  but  in  land 
travel,  wherein  so  much  is  to  be  observed,  for  the  most  part  they 
omit  it,  as  if  chance  were  fitter  to  be  registered  than  observation. 
Let  diaries,  therefore,  be  brought  into  use." 

Bacon's  Essays. 

"  But  then,  alas  !  they've  read  an  awful  deal. 

now  shall  we  plan  that  all  be  fresh  and  new, 

Important  matter,  yet  attractive  too  ?  " 

Faust. 


BOSTON: 
LEE    AND     SHEPARD,    PUBLISHERS. 

NEW  YORK: 

LEE,  SHEPARD  AND  DILLINGHAM. 

1874. 


Entered,  accordingr  to  Act  of  Confess,  in  the  year  1874, 

By  lee  and  SHEPARD, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


BTEBEOTYPED  AT  THB 
BOSTON  BTEUEOTYTE  FOXmDBT, 

19  Spring  Lane. 


T4^ 


THIS    BOOK    IS    DEDICATEl> 

TO 

MARY  E.  BLAIR 

{-8t.  Urtul*"), 

WHOSE    WISE    FORETHOUGHT    AND    TENDER   CARE 

MADE  THE  JOURNEY   HEREIN   DESCRIBED 

A  TREASURE  OF  DELIGHT; 

AND  TO 

THE   FIVE   OTHER   PILGRIMS 

FROM    "  THE    ROSE-BUD    GARDEN    OF    GIRLS," 

WHO  FILLED  IT  WITH  LAUGHTER 

AND  SONG. 


ivi637777 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive' 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/beateripathsorwomOOthomrich 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Chester 9 

II.  Scotland 22 

III.  Scotland 37 

IV.  From  Edinburgh  to  London.      •        «        •  63 
V.  A  Walk  in  Westminster.        •        •        •        •  65 

VI.  London  in  Water  Colors.  .        •        .        •  80 

VII.  Sunday  in  London 91 

VIII.  Belgium .        .  104 

'      IX.  Germany 123 

X.  The  Rhine.    .        .        .*       .        .        .        .  135 

XL  More  Germany 148 

XII.  Switzerland. 162 

XIII.  Shore  of  Lake  Leman 180 

XIV.  Geneva .  190 

XV.  Chamounix 206 

XVL  Paris 228 

XVII.  Paris 251 

XVIII.  Homeward  Bound.        .        .         .      ' .        .  267 

7 


BEATEN    PATHS; 

OR, 

A   WOMAN'S   VACATION. 


CHAPTER  I. 

CHESTER. 

"  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage." 

I  WANT  to  say,  to  begin  with,  that  the  writer  of  this 
book  is  one  of  "  the  few,  the  imraorial  few,"  left  of  her 
sex  in  America,  who  would  rather  have  an  India  shawl 
any  day  than  the  suffrage  ;  but  in  dark  moments,  when 
both  have  seemed  equally  unattainable,  it  has  occurred 
to  her  that  most  women's  lives  are  passed,  so  to  speak, 
in  long,  narrow  galleries,  built  about  with  customs  and 
conventionalities  more  impervious  than  stone.  Some- 
times they  contract  to  a  hot  little  kitchen,  and  the 
owner  might  as  well  be  a  Vestal  Virgin,  and  done  with 
it,  her  whole  life  being  spent  in  keeping  up  the  fire ; 
again,  like  Maud  Muller's,  these  walls  "  stretch  away 
into  stately  halls."  They  may  be  more  or  less  hung 
with  pictures  or  padded  with  books,  but  they  are  walls 
all  the  same.  Plenty  of  doors  lead  out  of  these  gal- 
leries, but  only  those  marked  "Church,"  "Visits,"  and 
"  Shopping,"  move  easily  on  their  hinges. 

9 


10  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

Most  of  us,  and  especially  those  who  have  been 
nourished  on  the  east  winds  of  Boston,  cast  longing 
eyes  at  the  door  marked  with  the  magical  word 
"  Europe,"  and  it  has  opened  freely  enough  when 
the  husband  said  the  "Open,  sesame;*"  it  is  only 
of  late  years  that  women  have  made  the  amazing 
discovery  that  they  can  say  it  themselves  with  like 
success,  but  it  is  well  to  keep  the  hinges  well  oiled, 
and  the  rubbish  cleared  away  from  the  threshold. 
When  my  turn  came,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  taken  into 
a  high  mountain  and  been  promised  all  the  kingdoms 
of  the  earth,  and  had  at  once  accepted  the  offer. 

I  joined  my  European  fortunes,  for  better  or  worse, 
to  six  other  anxious,  but  no  longer  aimless  women  ; 
seven  is  a  fortunate  and  famous  number,  and  we  felt 
that  what  seven  women  could  not  do  was  not  worth 
doing.  We  cast  behind  us  all  thought  of  those  other 
seven,  our  prototypes  in  the  uncomfortable  times  of  the 
Bible,  who  all  laid  hold  upon  one  man,  that  he  might  take 
away  their  reproach.  We  meant  to  have  no  reproaches, 
nor  men  either. 

The  ice  once  broken,  the  thing  was  so  easy  we  won- 
dered we  had  not  done  it  before.  If  you  know  how 
to  read  and  write,  you  can  easily  procure  a  passport, 
steamer  ticket,  and  letter  of  credit ;  the  hackraan  knows 
where  the  wharf  is,  if  you  don't,  and  once  on  bonrrl, 
you  have  only  to  say  your  prayers,  and  eat  four  meals 
a  day,  till  you  see  land  again.  American  women,  how. 
ever  "lone  and  lorn,"  are  always  entreated  softly  by 
their  own  countrymen  ;  if  the  latter  have  any  amiabil- 
ity about  them,  they  invariably  take  it  with  them  on 
their  travels.     It  is  a  trait  peculiar  to  them  among 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION  H 

Anglo-Saxons  —  one  of  the  few  things  that  did  7iot 
come  over  in  the  "  Mayflower ; "  the  Pilgrims  must 
have  picked  it  np  in  the  wilderness. 

There  are  people  who  actually  profess  to  enjoy  a 
steamer  passage  to  Liverpool ;  I  always  think  how  un- 
happy they  must  have  been  before  they  left  home. 
The  motion  of  a  screw-steamer  is  like  riding  a  gigantic 
camel  that  has  the  heart  disease,  and  you  do  not  miss 
a  single  throb. 

There  is  nothing  to  do,  and  too  many  to  do  it  with. 
There  are  no  colors  so  fast  that  salt  water  will  not  fade 
them  ;  brunettes  change  least ;  the  sharp  wind  only 
makes  a  brighter  flame  burn  in  their  cheeks ;  but  it  is 
merciless  to  the  fair,  delicate  faces,  whose  beauty  de- 
pends on  the  lighter  shades  of  pink,  blue,  and  yellow. 

There  are  traditions  handed  down  from  voyage  to 
voyage,  that  men  have  fallen  in  love  at  sea.  I  never 
saw  it  with  my  bodily  eyes,  nor  knew  any  one  who 
had ;  but  they  must  have  been  much  undermined  in 
sense,  and  just  ready  to  take  the  disease  before  they 
left  home.  Flirtation  and  shabbiness  do  not  naturally 
go  hand  in  hand  ;  they  are  almost  as  hostile  as  common 
sense  and  prettiness.  Cleopatra  herself  would  have 
looked  faded  in  her  oldest  gown,  and  without  her  ear- 
rings; and  Antony  would  have  ceased  to  be  her  "man 
of  men  "  in  a  flannel  shirt  and  an  unkempt  beard.  In 
the  shapeless  costumes  of  steamer  life,  one  may  gather 
a  faint  notion  of  how  this  world  will  look  when  the 
latest  ideas  of  dress  reformers  are  carried  out.  Men 
have  dressed  sensibly  for  many  years;  but  he  must 
be  a  perfect  Adonis  who  is  absolutely  handsome  in  a 
straight  suit  of  black  broadcloth.     When  women  are 


12  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

reduced  to  the  same  level  in  black  silk  trousers  and 
loose  blouses,  then  for  the  sake  of  beauty  and  bright- 
ness lying  at  their  last  gasp,  men  must  go  back  to  the 
gay  fashions  of  the  time  when  old  Samuel  Pepys  took 
the  gold  lace  off  his  wife's  wedding  petticoat  to  trim 
his  new  suit. 

One  cannot  help  perceiving  at  once  that  these  long 
days,  homeless  as  orphans  and  briny  as  tears,  die  a 
much  easier  death  at  men's  hands  than  at  ours.  They 
positively  seem  to  wring  a  kind  of  salt  comfort  out  of 
this  rough,  scrambling,  ungloved  life  at  sea;  the  taste 
for  barbarism  and  old  coats,  latent  in  all  of  them,  comes 
to  the  surface.  Women  never  can  be  really  happy 
in  any  condition  where  they  lose  their  good  looks. 
There  was  a  vast  amount  of  laughter  and  gayety  on 
our  steamer,  but  I  am  persuaded  it  was  but  an  empty 
show ;  we  were  all  actors  and  actresses,  and  our  real, 
unvarnished  selves  would  have  wandered  up  and  down 
the  deck  like  the  lost  souls  in  the  Hall  of  Eblis,  hold- 
ing our  hands  on  our  hearts,  and  speaking  no  word  to 
one  another. 

One  must  be  very  young  and  very  joyful,  or  very 
old  and  very  weary,  to  really  squeeze  any  juice  of 
delight  out  of  that  greenest  of  lemons,  a  steamer  pas- 
sage across  the  Atlantic. 

I  was  not  seasick  —  that  was  the  woe  of  it!  to 
be  seasick  and  to  get  over  it,  is  a  good  thing  for  the 
body,  if  not  for  the  soul ;  but  to  be  ineffibly  miser- 
able, too  dizzy  to  read  or  knit,  or  play  any  game,  and 
yet  able  to  eat  and  sleep,  so  that  no  one  puts  faith 
in  you,  is  too  tedious  for  endurance.  I  know  nothing 
to  compare  with  it  for  boredom,  unless  it  be  your 
honeymoon  when  you  have  married  for  money. 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION'.  13 

At  the  best,  it  is  a  sort  of  intermecliate  state  between 
death  and  life,  not  unlike  the  Catholic  purgatory,  an 
uneasy  and  nnfra grant  place,  in  which  to  repent  one's 
sins  and.  make  good  resolutions;  and  the  last  day, 
when  the  steamer  plods  by  the  Irish  coast,  is  like  the 
resurrection  in  this,  that  people  keep  coming  up  whom 
you  had  utterly  forgotten  ;  and  unliJce  it,  in  that  all  are 
happy  and  smile  real  smiles  at  each  other,  instead  of 
the  mechanical  grins  of  mid-ocean. 

I  know  not  whether  the  shores  of  the  Mersey  are 
really  picturesque,  and  studded  with  lovely  villas,  or 
whether,  intoxicated  by  the  breath  of  the  land,  I  should 
have  seen  beauty  in  the  sands  of  the  Desert,  and  srrace 
in  the  humps  of  its  camels. 

Liverpool  is  just  the  doorstep  of  England  —  we 
only  stand  on  it  lon<x  enouo^h  to  be  let  into  "our 
old  home."  If  you  take  a  dock  and  multiply  it  by 
twenty  miles,  the  answer  is  Liverpool ;  but  only  half 
an  hour  distant  lies  the  moss-grown,  ohl,  Roman  city 
of  Chester,  where  the  sums  were  all  done,  and  the 
slate  hung  up,  ages  ago.  There  is  a  royal  road  for 
travellers,  and  most  Americans  choose  it ;  they  stop  at 
the  kind  of  hotel  which  our  countrymen  have  put  to- 
gether, out  of  equal  parts  of  plate-glass  and  ice-water, 
marble  pavements  and  supercilious  waiters.  They 
travel  in  first-class  carriages,  because  they  have  heard 
that  the  nobility  do  so,  and  scatter  money  about  as 
if  they  were  slaves  to  it,  and  were  anxious  to  get  rid 
of  their  tyrant.  All  their  trophies  are  bracelets,  and 
laces,  and  silks  that  will  stand  alone.  Their  poor  re- 
lations who  stay  at  home,  suppose  that  the  gates  of 
foreign  countries  are  closed,  except  to  such  royal  prog- 


14  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

resses.  Armies  of  people,  especially  women,  yearn 
all  their  lives  to  look  on  the  cathedrals  and  pictures 
of  Europe,  and  die  without  the  sight,  because  some 
snob  has  said  that  there  is  no  comfort  in  going  abroad, 
unless  one  can  spend  a  thousand  dollars  a  month. 

An  Englishman  never  travels,  it  is  said,  without 
taking  all  England  with  him,  and  Americans  carry 
nearly  always  a  swelling  desire  that  the  greatness  of 
their  country  should  be  distinctly  seen  in  their  .single 
selves ;  they  never  can  realize  that  England  is  a  pocket 
volume,  and  America  an  encyclopaedia.  It  is  both  pos- 
sible and  delightful  to  strike  into  other  roads,  in  the 
beginning,  than  the  broad  one,  where  the  crowd  is  — 
country  roads  bordered  with  green  hedges,  leading  to 
quaint  old  inns  that  have  not  changed  their  names 
since  Chaucer's  time. 

Even  in  these  places  they  know  how  to  take  in 
strangers,  for  Americans  are  fair  prey  everywhere  in 
Europe ;  but  you  get  at  the  old  stories  and  customs  of 
the  place,  and  lay  up  stores  for  winter  evenings  at 
home  —  memories  that  will  do  duty  when  moth  and 
rust  have  corrupted  bracelets  and  laces. 

To  travel  over  Europe,  thinking  always  of  bodily 
comfort,  is  equivalent  to  taking  rooms  at  the  best  hotel 
in  New  York  for  the  same  length  of  time,  eating  and 
drinking,  and  lounging  for  a  steady  business,  and  inci- 
dentally reading  guide-books. 

I  said  all  this  with  firm  faith  in  its  good  sense,  tlien^ 
as  I  say  it  now  —  "  what  is  true  anywhere  is  true  every- 
where ; "  and  yet  it  did  not  stand  by  me  in  the  hour  of 
need.  Chester  hns  two  or  three  large  and  gorgeous 
hotels,  in  which  the  American  eagle  can  flap  bis  wings 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION',  15 

as  boldly  as  if  he  were  at  home  ;  but  it  is  also  rich  in 
those  ancient  inns,  in  which  all  the  characters  of  Eng- 
lish literature  have  taken  their  ease  since  the  English 
world  besran. 

"Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ?"  said  Fal- 
staff;  and  he  might  have  taken  it,  pressed  down  and  run- 
ning over,  where  we  did,  in  the  little  caravansary  called 
** Blossom's."  It  was  quaint,  old-fashioned,  and  rani- 
bling  enough  to  go  bodily  into  one  of  Dickens's  novels, 
without  paring  off*  a  single  feature.  All  sorts  of  wind- 
ing passagea  led  to  corner  cupboards  and  unexpected 
bedrooms.  It  should  have  been  called  nothins:  less 
than  the  "  Red  Lion,"  or,  better  still,  the  "Great  White 
Horse,"  where  Mr.  Pickwick  stopped  when  he  made 
"  the  most  extraordinary  mistake  of  his  life,"  in  get- 
ting into  the  same  bedroom  with  the  lady  in  the  yellow 
curl-papers.  Sam  Weller  sliook  his  head  doubtfully 
over  it,  but  the  same  thing  might  happen  at  "Blossom's  " 
every  night,  with  nobody  to  blame. 

A  buxom  Welsh  girl,  in  a  white  cap,  answers  your 
bell,  instead  of  a  waiter  unhappy  in  a  white  tie  and  a 
swallow-tailed  coat.  The  narrow  hall  gives  a  glimpse 
of  the  kitchen,  with  great  joints  and  shoulders  of  meat 
hanging  from  the  ceiling,  as  it  did  in  the  franklin's 
house,  in  the  Canterbury  Tales,  where,  says  Chaucer,  — 

**  It  rayned  of  meat  and  drinke." 

Your  meals  are  served  smoking  hot,  in  a  bright, 
queer  little  parlor  up  stairs,  and  within  ten  minutes  of 
your  arrival  your  feeling  is,  that  you  have  lived  there 
before  in  some  previous  state  of  existence,  and  have 
only  come  back  to  your  old  haunts  at  last.     Unfortu- 


16  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

nately  "Blossom's"  is  cheap,  so  that  few  Americans  will 
ever  be  brought  to  believe  in  it.  We  thought  ourselves 
in  English  clover,  till  we  met  some  steamer  acquaint- 
ances at  the  door  of  the  "  Grosvenor,"  a  grand  hotel, 
built  by  the  Marquis  of  Westminster,  for  the  spoiling 
of  the  Egyptians.  It  was  one  of  the  Croesus  party  who 
stood  on  the  stairs,  and  said,  in  the  true  Croesus  tone, 
which  makes  one's  blood  run  backward  on  the  instant, — 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  are  comfortable?  'Blos- 
som's' is  so  very  dingy  and  unprepossessing,  on  the 
outside  at  least." 

We  were  well  fortified  with  all  the  reasons  herein 
mentioned  for  choosing  an  English  inn,  rather  than  a 
transplanted  American  hotel ;  but  we  must  have  been 
more  or  less  than  Americans  if  this  bit  of  deprecating 
patronage  had  not  found  a  chink  in  our  armor. 

We  w^ere  not  strong-minded  enough  to  bear  the 
thought  of  Mr.  Croesus  supposing  that  we  chose  "  Blos- 
som's "  out  of  poverty,  for  are  we  not  all  taught  from 
our  cradles  that  poverty  is  the  unpardonable  sin? 
This  sort  of  patronage  pricks  sharply  at  first,  but  one 
learns  to  expect  it  in  one's  travelling  countrymen  as 
surely  as  beggars  in  Ireland,  or  fleas  in  Italy.  We  soon 
after  filed  into  a  second-class  car,  under  fire  of  the  Croesus 
party,  and  when  we  had  time  to  take  stock  of  our  feelings, 
were  surprised  to  find  so  few  killed  and  wounded. 

Another  form  of  it  is  the  absolute  conviction  of  each 
party  of  travellers,  that  they,  and  none  other,  have 
made  the  perfect  tour.  If  you  have  been  through 
Scotland  without  visiting  the  Trosachs,  you  have  made 
the  grand  mistake  of  your  life ;  or  if  you  have  studied 
the  Trosachs,  and  passed  Glasgow  by  on  the  other  side, 


A   WOMAN* S    VACATIOJSr.  17 

the  result  is  the  same  ;  it  is  one  of  those  rare  rules  that 
work  both  ways  with  perfect  smoothness. 

Chester  is  a  "well  of  English  undefiled;"  the  walls 
built  by  the  Romans,  when  its  name  was  Castra 
(camps),  have  been  constantly  kept  up  and  restored, 
and  now  clasp  the  waist  of  the  city  with  a  red  stone 
girdle,  two  miles  round.  They  are  from  twelve  to  forty 
feet  high,  crossing  over  the  streets  on  archej;,  and  form 
a  broad,  even*  footpath,  from  which  to  gaze  into  all  the 
faces  of  Chester. 

They  were  built  first  in  A.  D.  61,  and  a  daughter  of 
Alfred  the  Great  once  mended  some  rents  in  them, 
which  must  have  wofuUy  used  up  her  pocket-money. 
On  one  of  the  towers  Charles  I.  stood,  to  watch  the 
defeat  of  one  of  his  armies^  and  I  suppose  that  solemn, 
haunting  face  of  his  grew  even  longer  and  peakeder 
than  Vandyke  paints  it.  Tliese  red  walls  are  odd 
and  picturesque  in  their  way ;  but  were  Chester  and  her 
walls  to  be  set  down  bodily  on  American  soil,  a  new 
army  of  Irishmen  and  pickaxes  would  shortly  encamp 
round  about  her,  and  leave  not  one  stone  upon  another. 
The  railroad  has  breached  them,  but  in  the  olden  time 
there  were  only  four  gates,  defended  by  certain  great 
lords  and  their  followers. 

The  River  Dee  flows  lazily  by  the  city,  as  if  loath  to 
leave  it,  the  same  Dee  which  flows  sorrowfully  through 
that  little  song  of  Kingsley's :  — 

*'  O  Mary,  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee." 

The  river  gives  a  good  gift  to  Chester  in  the  way  of 
salmon,  and  the  cook  at  "  Blossom's"  folded  each  piece 
in  a  bit  of  white  paper,  to  keep  the  juice  in  while  she 
2 


18  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR, 

broiled  it.  It  is  odd  to  peck  one's  breakfast  out  of  a 
paper  bundle,  but  in  no  other  way  can  one  reach  all  the 
possibilities  contained  in  salmon. 

The  houses  in  many  old  streets,  called  "  The  Rows,'* 
thrust  out  the  second  story  from  ten  to  twenty  feet^ 
and  rest  it  on  pillars,  as  if^  after  some  sudden  shock 
(perhaps  the  defeat  of  Charles  I.  under  the  walls),  they 
had  proposed  to  go  outside  and  see  about  it,  and  after 
malving  the  first  step  had  thought  better  of  it,  and 
staid  where  they  were. 

The  covered  ways,  thus  secured,  are  excellent  loafing 
places  in  a  rainy  climate.  On  one  of  the  oldest  houses, 
with  figures  of  ancient  saints  bulging  out  of  the  front, 
is  the  inscription,  "  God's  providence  is  mine  inherit- 
ance." The  population  havp  an  easy,  leisurely  way  of 
taking  life,  as  if  they  had  all  some  sort  of  an  inherit- 
ance, and  it  would  be  all  the  same  a  hundred  years 
hence  whether  this  generation  bestirred  itself  or  not. 
Small  boys  in  Chester,  as  in  other  parts  of  England, 
wear  tall  beaver  hats,  sometimes  with  a  band  of  crape 
about  them,  which  gives  to  the  American  eye  an  ab- 
surd intimation  that  they  have  lost  their  first  wives. 

The  cathedral  of  Chester  is  a  good  one  to  begin  with, 
since  it  is  the  oldest  and  plainest  in  England.  It  is 
about  to  be  restored  in  its  own  style,  but  new  stones 
will  rather  take  away  than  add  to  the  satisfying  beauty 
that  now  clothes  its  broken  arches.  The  abbey  at- 
tached to  it  once  embraced  great  tracts  of  fertile  coun- 
try and  many  good  houses,  which  paid  tithes  of  mint 
and  cumin  to  the  fat  abbots,  till  the  time  of  Henry 
VIII.  Monks  knew  how  to  be  comfortable,  as  well  as 
other  sinful  souls. 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  19 

"  The  friars  of  Fail 
Gat  never  owre  bard  eggs  or  owre  liard  kale, 
For  tliey  made  their  eggs  thin  wi'  butter 
And  their  kale  thick  wi'  bread. 
And  the  friars  of  Fail,  they  made  good  kale 
,    On  Fridays,  when  they  fasted. 
They  never  wanted  gear  enough 
As  lang  as  their  neighbors'  lasted." 

They  served  the  Lord  right  cheerfully  in  CIi ester,  eat- 
ing salmon  on  fast  days,  till  the  bluff  king  fell  in  love 
with  Anne  Boleyn,  and  trampled  the  Catholic  Church 
and  her  monks  under  his  feet,  in  order  to  marry  her. 

When  the  monks  were  driven  out  of  their  soft  places,  • 
and  all  the  days  were  fast-days,  they  must  have  been 
good  Christians,  indeed,  if  they  did  not  couple  "anath- 
ema maranatha"  with  the  woman's  name  who  was  at 
the  bottom  of  it.  They  must  have  borne  with  great 
fortitude  the  news  of  her  beheadino:. 

The  wood  carvinsfs  in  the  cathedral  are  more  curious 
than  beautiful.  It  certainly  does  not  assist  devotion  to 
have  one  end  of  your  pew  guarded  by  an  astonished 
griffin,  and  the  other  by  a  cowled  monk,  or  to  look  up 
to  a  pulpit  carved  all  over  with  such  heads  as  usually 
confine  themselves  to  dreams  and  masquerades.  It  is 
as  if  the  old  carvers  had  interpreted  literally  the  com- 
mand that  the  gospel  was  to  be  preached  to  every  crea- 
ture, dragons  and  all. 

Two  curious  epitaphs  caught  my  eyes  in  wandering 
about  the  cloisters.  One  praised  a  certain  Frederick 
Philipse,  citizen  of  the  province  of  New  York,  a  faith- 
ful subject  of  the  king,  who  fled  to  England  in  the 
"late  rebellion."  As  he  died  in  1783,  it  proved  to  be, 
not  the  late  unpleasantness,  which  we  call  "the  rebel- 


20  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

lion,"  but  that  earlier  scrimmage  which  success  made 
into  a  revolution. 

There  are  many  little  phrases  cut  into  the  enduring 
English  stone,  touching  American  affairs,  which  force 
the  traveller  to  set  his  thoughts  back  on  the  dial-plate 
of  time  for  a  hundred  years  or  more. 

A  "cheap  stone"  sets  forth  that  Dean  Arderne, 
of  the  cathedral  of  Chester,  "  did  give  and  bequeath 
all  his  money  to  the  church  from  which  he  drew  it 
(tho'  he  loved  his  family),  wishing  the  clergy  to  con- 
sider whether  it  were  not  a  sort  of  sacrilege  to  divert 
all  their  money  from  the  church  to  relatives  who  were 
not  needy."  It  would  tend  to  edification  if  they  had 
put  up  another  "cheap  stone,"  to  tell  what  the  rela- 
tives thought  about  it,  and  whether  it  had  ever  con- 
vinced any  rich  priest  that  blood  is  not  thicker  than 
water,  e'en  though  it  be  holy  water. 

Most  of  the  monkish  lands  and  treasures  have  fallen 
to  the  share  of  the  Marquis  of  Westminster,  who 
seems  to  have  outgrown  the  curse  that  used  to  attach 
to  church  lands  in  the  hands  of  the  laity. 
.i  He  has  a  park  and  country  seat  called  Eaton  Hall, 
near  Chester,  which  is  one  of  the  show-houses  of  Eng- 
land. We  could  see  onlv  the  outside,  as  it  was  under- 
going  repairs  at  the  rate  of  ten  thousand  pounds  a 
week.  The  park  is  only  thirty-six  miles  round,  and 
has  four  churches  within  its  limits.  I  did  not  hear 
whether  the  marquis  went  to  church  four  times  a  Sun- 
day. The  park  is  dotted  with  great  oak  trees,  whose 
thickness  puts  likelihood  at  once  into  that  old  story  of 
Charles  H.  being  hid  in  an  oak,  unseen,  while  his  pur- 
suers took  counsel  beneath  it.     American  oaks  would 


A   WOMAN'S  VACAT/02V.  21 

keep  no  man  a  secret.  Groups  of  deer  feed  all  about 
the  park  in  all  peace  and  calmness,  securely  fenced  in 
by  the  game  laws.  All  Chester  and  its  visitors  diive 
and  walk  freely  in  this  estate,  which  is  really  a  joint- 
stock  affair,  and  possibly  pays  better  interest  to  a  stran- 
ger in  a  single  visit,  than  to  its  owner  in  all  his  life. 

The  favorite  vehicle  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  seems  to 
be  a  sort  of  two-wheeled  cart,  with  timber  enough  in 
it  to  make  half  a  dozen  buggies,  and  two  seats,  back  to 
back.  Any  number  of  children,  from  three  to  six  years 
old,  cling  about  the  back  seat,  and  nothing  less  than  a 
special  Providence,  or  an  Act  of  Parliament,  keeps 
them  from  flying  off  like  sparks  from  a  hot  wheel. 

Chester  is  the  grand  "meet"  for  the  mighty  hunters 
of  all  the  country  side.  A  certain  Lord  Grosvenor, 
brother  of  the  marquis,  is  Nimrod  himself;  he  hunts 
every  week-day,  and  looks  at  his  horses  on  Sunday. 

1  forgot  to  say,  what  cannot  be  said  too  often  of  Eng- 
lish ways,  that  the  first  thing  to  do  on  landing  is  to 
marry  an  umbrella,  and  never  to  separate  from  it  on 
any  incompatibility  whatever.  Nature  waters  her 
English  plants  whenever  she  happens  to  think  of  it, 
without  the  least  calculation  as  to  when  she  did  it  last, 
and  they  repay  her  bounty  with  an  intense  greenness 
and  thick  luxuriance,  as  if  every  separate  leaf  had  its 
own  polishing.  Chester  is  in  sight  of  the  Welsh 
mountains,  and  many  of  its  inhabitants  are  buried  un- 
der Welsh  epitaphs,  without  a  vowel  in  them. 

The  commonest  name  on  the  street  signs  is  "Wil- 
liams," which  has  no  root  out  of  Wales.  If  the  old 
Welsh  saying  be  true,  that  "the  way  of  the  Williamses 
is  always  towards  their  duty,"  Chester  must  be  a  very 
steady-going  place. 


22  BEATEN  PATHS.    OR 


CHAPTER  11. 

SCOTLAND. 

"Up  with  the  bonnie  blue  bonnet, 
The  dirk  and  feather  and  a'  1 " 

IF  one  visits  Scotland  at  all,  it  is  well  to  do  it  early 
in  one's  tour,  before  the  mind  is  jaded,  and  the 
pockets  emptied,  by  the  magnificent  vanities  of  the 
continent. 

The  journey  is  easily  made  in  a  day  from  Chester 
to  Edinburgh,  passing  the  border  at  Gretna  Green,  the 
famous  place  for  runaway  marriages. 

This  sleepy  little  village  looks  innocent  enough  now, 
but  it  has  had  far  more  than  its  share  of  the  tragedy 
and  comedy  of  the  world.  The  old  blacksmith,  who 
tied  so  many  hard  knots  for  distressed  lovers,  is  long 
since  dead  and  gone  where  he  will  do  no  more  of  that 
work,  and  the  sweet  old  flavor  of  romance  clinging 
about  a  stolen  marriage  is  well  nigh  gone  too.  The 
world  has  grown  so  practical,  that  to  marry  for  love, 
and  nothing  else,  is  become  simply  ridiculous. 

The  English  country  strikes  one  like  a  well-ordered 
room,  swept  and  garnished,  and  everything  put  away. 
There  seems  nothing  for  future  babies  to  do,  but  to 


A   WOMAiV'S  VACATION.  23 

lean  on  their  hoe-handles  and  admire  the  industry  of 
their  forefathers,  and  all  the  laborers  that  we  observed 
in  the  fields  had  even  now  begun  to  do  it,  with  one 
accord. 

The  yellow  broom  plant  {jylaiita genista^  tlie  sign  of 
the  Phintagenets)  brightens  all  the  fields.  After  pass- 
ing the  border,  the  country  grows  rougher;  a  New 
Hampshire  woman  begins  to  feel  herself  at  home,  but 
the  foreiorn  feelino:  comes  back  when  she  sees  the 
moors  and  hill-sides  darkening  under  vast  purple 
shadows,  which  prove  to  be  heather. 

Who  first  saw  the  resemblance  of  Edinburgh  to 
Athens  was,  doubtless,  a  good  Scotchman  ;  but  the 
man  who  evolved,  from  his  inner  consciousness,  its 
likeness  to  Boston,  must  have  been  a  Bostonian  of  the 
most  exalted  patriotism,  and.  deserves  a  statue  in  the 
State  House  yard. 

Edinburgh  is  a  city  set  on  a  hill,  and  is  so  entirely  a 
part  of  that  hill,  that  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  men's 
hands  had  anything  to  do  with  the  beginning  of  it; 
the  first  impression  of  the  "Castle"  must  be  that  it 
grew  out  of  the  ground,  and  a  naked  troop  of  Picts 
and  Scots,  seeking  what  they  might  devour,  found  it 
and  took  possession. 

One  of  the  guide-books  says  that  Edinburgh  may  be 
"c?on6"in  a  day;  that  guide-book  must  have  been 
written  by  the  man  who  thought  he  could  have  made 
a  better  world  than  this  in  less  than  a  week.  Amer- 
icans draw  their  character  and  strong  points  so  largely 
from  the  Scotch,  that  it  behooves  them  to  linger  long 
and  lovingly  on  its  soil.  Princes  Street  is  well  named ; 
the   monuments  of  Scott   and  Burns  keep  guard  at 


24  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

either  end,  and  fine  houses,  fit  for  princes,  line  all  the 
way. 

If  God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town, 
they  worked  togetlier-  in  Edinburgh ;  the  great  hills 
clasp  it  like  arms;  the  air  in  summer  is  "coldly-sunny," 
with  a  flavor  of  mountains  in  it,  and  early  in  the  morn- 
ing one  is  waked  by  the  "sweet  jargoning"  of  birds, 
as  if  each  one  were  telling  his  dreams. 

The  first  sunset  walk  tends  naturally  to  the  Calton 
Hill,  the  "Acropolis"  of  Edinburgh,  dedicated  to  dead 
Scotchmen ;  the  Parthenon,  designed  in  imitation  of 
the  Greek  temple  of  that  name,  and  in  honor  of  those 
who  fell  at  Waterloo,  began  and  ended  with  one  row 
of  Corinthian  pillars,  "  a  monument  of  Scotland's  pride 
and  poverty;"  but  an  iron  fence  marks  out  the  space 
which  was  to  have  been  enclosed  by  the  temple.  After 
all,  one  may  count  himself  fortunate  if,  in  failure,  he 
can  forever  show  to  people  what  he  had  meant  to  do. 

From  the  Calton  Hill  one  gets  the  finest  view  of 
"  Auld  Reekie,"  or  the  clouds  of  smoke  hanging  over 
it,  which  christened  it  by  that  name. 

In  the  valley  under  "  Arthur's  Seat"  lies  the  old  city, 
and  the  palace  of  Holyrood,  with  its  familiar  towers, 
which  appear  in  the  background  of  the  best  portrait 
of  Queen  Mary.  The  old  Scotch  gentry  might  as  well 
have  lived  on  ladders,  for  they  built  their  houses  four- 
teen or  fifteen  stories  in  height.  Yet,  according  to  their 
history,  they  were  no  nearer  Heaven  than  their  de- 
scendants. The  hio^hest  of  these  old  towers  have  been 
taken  down  for  safely,  but  nine  and  ten  stories  are  still 
common.  The  dark  alleys  between  them  are  well 
called  "  Closes." 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  25 

Ev^y thing  in  Edinburgh  reminds  you  of  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott.  He  is  the  petted  son  of  his  country,  whose 
will  is  still  law,  and  that  country  might  well  be  spelled 
Scott-land  since  his  death.  The  fine  drive  around 
Arthur's  Seat  was  built  because  it  was  his  favorite 
haunt;  he  pays  tribute  to  it  in  the  seventh  chapter 
of  the  Heart  of  Mid  Lothian.  The  sun  never  set 
60  beautifully  to  him  as  from  the  base  of  Salisbury 
Crags. 

Nichol  Muschat's  Cairn,  the  place  of  lonely  horror 
where  Jeanie  Deans  met  her  sister's  betrayer,  has  been 
reached  and  surrounded  by  cottages  and  gardens.  It 
is  just  a  pile  of  stones  to  mark  the  place  of  any  deed 
of  violence.  One  of  the  worst  of  old  Scotch  curses 
was,  "May  you  have  a  caiin  for  your  grave."  To  see 
it  in  the  midst  of  rural  peaceful  life,  stiikes  one  gro- 
tesquely, like  locks  of  hair  or  any  other  souvenir  of  an 
old  love  kept  for  show  on  a  centre-table. 

Jeanie  Deans's  cottage  is  still  a  comfortable  house. 
One  looks  for  Dumbiedikes  tumbling  down  the  hill  on 
his  stiff-necked  pony,  and  for  the  moment  one  is  oddly 
conscious  of  living  and  walking  iu  a  book  instead  of 
this  present  busy  life. 

What  one  sees  at  Holyrood  is  more  curious  and 
moth-eaten  than  beautiful.  Mary  Stewart  was  but 
poorly  lodged  in  her  palace;  any  gentlewoman  (»f  these 
latter  days  is  better  provided  with  space  and  light. 
The  narrow  winding  stairs  in  the  towers  of  Holyrood 
give  a  faint  notion  of  the  dark  and  tortuous  ways  of 
her  court.  It  must  have  been  very  close  quarters  in 
the  little  supper  room  for  Mary  and  her  favorites,  be- 
fore two  or  three  of  her  lords,  led  by  Darnley,  her 


26  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

husband,  stole  up  the  winding  stairs  and  killed ♦Rizzio 
while  clinging  to  her  robe.  Mary's  admirers  protest 
that  Rizzio  was  not  her  lover,  but  had  found  grace  in 
her  eyes,  because  he  was  a  good  Catholic  and  a  better 
fiddler.  He  was  dragged  across  the  chamber  and  the 
hall  of  reception,  and  leCt  all  night  in  his  blood  at  the 
head  of  the  staircase.  When  the  deed  was  done, 
Mary  dried  her  eyes  and  said,  "I  will  now  study  re- 
venge ; "  but  she  put  up  a  partition,  cutting  oflf  a  third 
of  the  hall  to  hide  the  spot  on  the  floor. 

It  was  odd  that  those  of  us  who  had  long  been  famil- 
iar with  Queen  Mary's  sorrows  saw  distinctly  the  stain 
of  Rizzio's  blood,  while  those  who  heard  the  story  for 
the  first  time  could  not  see  it  at  all. 

It  is  but  barren  travelling  over  places  that  men  liave 
made  famous,  if  one  brings  no  m.emories  to  clothe 
them  withal ;  but  when  the  old  story  and  the  reality 
come  together,  they  fit  like  pieces  of  armor,  joint  to 
joint. 

Mary's  mirror  was  scarce  larger  than  her  face,  but 
she  needed  no  flattery  that  she  did  not  find  in  the  eyes 
of  her  courtiers. 

The  portraits  of  Scottish  kings  are  shown  by  the 
dozen  at  Holyrood,  kings  in  the  dark  ages,  who  not 
only  never  had  a  portrait,  but  many  of  them  never 
existed  at  all,  outside  the  brain  of  the  Scottish  chron- 
icler. The  kingdom  fell  into  ill  luck,  and  the  Stewart 
line  at  the  same  time,  when  Maijory  Bruce  married 
her  handsome  subject,  Robert  Stewart.  When  the 
news  of  Mary  Stewart's  birth  was  brought'  to  her 
father  in  old  Linlithgow  Castle,  after  a  great  defeat  of 
his  army,  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wail  and  groaned, 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION,  27 

"The  kingdom  came  wkh  a  lass,  and  it  will  go  with  a 
lass." 

The  chapel  of  Holyrood,  roofless  and  crumbling,  is 
more  lovely  in  its  decay  than  it  ever  could  have  been 
in  its  early  days.  The  stone  remains  where  Mary 
knelt  at  her  raaniage  with  Lord  Darnley,  whom  she 
called,  at  first  sight,  "the  handsomest  long  man  she  had 
ever  seen." 

It  is  one  long  climb  from  Holyrood  to  the  Cistle, 
which  must  have  been  intended  by  nature  solely  as  a 
nest  for  eagles.  On  the  way,  one  walks  over  a  square 
stone  in  the  pavement,  which  marks  the  place  of  the 
old  "  Tolbooth,"  or  prison  of  the  city.  It  was  called 
the  "  Heart  of  Mid  Lothian,"  and  its  massive  door  is 
built  into  the  wall  of  Abbotsford.  The  Castle  has 
never  been  taken  except  by  treachery.  A  young  man, 
taught  by  love,  had  found  a  way  to  climb  over  the  wall 
to  see  the  keeper's  daughter  ("  of  course  there  was  a 
woman  in  it"),  and  he  showed  the  path  to  thirty 
others,  who  surprised  and  took  the  Castle.  It  was  the 
custom  of  Scottish  queens  to  retire  to  the  Castle, 
when  expecting  the  birth  of  their  children ;  and  here, 
in  a  little  room  not  eight  feet  across  at  the  longest, 
w\as  born  James  VI.  of  Scotland  and  I.  of  England. 
The  chronicle  of  the  time  tells  what  happened  next. 

The  young  prince  was  ushered  into  the  world  be- 
tween nine  and  ten  in  the  morning.  Darnley  cnme 
about  two  in  the  afternoon  to  see  mother  and  child. 
"My  lord,"  said  Mary,  "God  has  given  us  a  son." 
Partially  uncovering  the  infant's  face,  she  added  a  pro- 
test that  it  was  his,  and  no  other  man's  son.  Then 
turning  to  an  English   gentleman   present,  she   said, 


28  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

"This  is  the  son  who,  I  hope,  shall  first  unite  Scotland 
and  England."  He  replied,  "Why,  madam,  shall  he 
succeed  before  your  majesty  and  his  father?"  "Alas!" 
answered  Mary.  "His  father  has  broken  to  me,"  allud- 
ing to  his  joining  the  murderous  conspiracy  against 
Rizzio.  "Sweet  madam,"  said  Darnley,  "is  this  the 
promise  that  you  made,  that  you  would  forget  and  for- 
give all?"  "I  have  forgiven  all,"  said  the  queen,  "but 
will  never  forget.  What  if  Fawdonside's  (one  of  the 
conspirators)  pistol  had  shot?  ^  (She  had  felt  the  cold 
steel  on  her  bosom.)  What  would  have  become  of 
the  child  and  me  both?"  "Madam,"  said  Darnley, 
"these  things  are  past."  "Then,"  said  the  queen,  "let 
them  go!"     And  so  ended  this  singular  conversation. 

On  the  wall  of  this  little  room  is  a  prayer  that  no 
one  had  greater  need  to  offer  than  the  beautiful 
queen :  — 

"  Lord  Jesu  Christ  that  crounit  was  with  Thornse, 
Preserve  the  birth,  quhais  Badgie  heir  is  borne, 
And  send  his  sonne  successione  to  reign  stille 
Lord  in  this  real  me,  if  tliat  it  be  thy  will. 
Als  grant,  O  Lord,  quhat  ever  of  his  proceed, 
Be  to  thy  Honer  and  Praise.     Sobied." 

I  think  there  never  was  a  woman  from  whom  so 
much  " proceeded "  that  was  not  to  the  "Honer  and 
Praise  "  of  God. 

In  the  outer  room  is  her  portrait,  painted  in  her 
teens,  about  the  time  she  became  Dauphiness  of 
France,  and  before  craft  or  misfortune  had  marred  her 
face.  It  satisfies  one's  ideal  of  the  woman  whose  love- 
liness melted  even  the  heart  of  her  executioner,  so  that 
he  wished  to  kiss  her  hand  before  he  did  his  horrible 


A    WOMAN'S  VACATION.  29 

office.  Her  portraits  vary  in  everything  except  the 
arched  eyebrows;  but  this  one  is  said  to  be  genuine. 

Scott  has  drawn  her  picture  in  the  Abbot  with 
the  pencil  of  a  lover.  "  That  brow,  so  truly  open  and 
regal  —  those  eyebrows,  so  regularly  graceful,  which 
yet  were  saved  from  the  charge  of  regular  insipidity 
by  the  beautiful  effect  of  the  hazel  eyes,  w^hich  they 
overarched,  and  which  seem  to  utter  a  thousand  his- 
tories—  the  nose  with  all  its  Grecian  precision  of  out- 
line—  the  mouth,  so  sweetly  formed,  as  if  designed  to 
speak  nothing  but  what  was  delightful  to  hear  —  the 
dimpled  chin  —  the  stately  swan-like  neck,  form  a 
countenance  the  like  of  which  we  know  not  to  have 
existed  in  any  other  character." 

The  Scottish  crown  jewels  are  but  a  modest  show  of 
gold  and  precious  stones,  but  so  dear  to  the  Scottish 
heart,  that  for  many  years  after  the  union  of  the  two 
kingdoms  they  were  hidden  away,  by  the  cunning  of 
women,  sometimes  in  the  cellar  of  a  church,  and  oftener 
in  a  double-bottomed  bed,  lest  the  English  should  car- 
ry them  off. 

They  lay  for  a  hundred  years  in  a  dusty  old  oaken 
chest  in  the  Castle,  where  they  were  discovered  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott  at  last,  and  shown  without  fee,  by  his 
advice.  Lockhart  tells,  in  his  life,  how^  his  loyal  soul 
was  stirred  in  its  depths  when  the  old  regalia  came 
again  to  light.  The  sceptre  was  last  used  when  James 
united  Scotland  and  England,  and  the  English  chan- 
cellor laid  it  down  with  the  scornful  Scotch  proverb, 
"There's  an  end  of  an  auld  sang." 

Scottish  history  is  rich  in  brave  women,  as  they  were 
rich  in  brave  sons.    It  was  a  noble  Countess  of  Buchan 


30  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

who  claimed  her  husband's  right,  in  his  absence,  to 
crown  Robert  Bruce,  for  which  high  crime  and  mis- 
demeanor she  was  hung  up  in  an  iron  cage  outside  the 
walls  of  Stirling  Gastle ;  but  nothing  of  that  kind  ever 
kills  a  woman.  She  lived  to  see  Robert  Bruce  enjoy 
his  own  again,  in  spite  of  lier  enemies  and  his. 

In  the  Royal  Institution  is  Jenny  Geddes's  stool, 
the  identical  one  which  she  threw  at  the  head  of  the 
prelate  in  St.  Giles's  Cljurch,  when  he  tried  to  read  the 
collect. 

"(7oZ/c,  said  ye?  The  deil  colic  the  wame  [stomach] 
of  ye!  Would  ye  read  mass  at  my  ear?"  This  was 
the  signal  for  the  final  uprising  of  the  Scotch  against 
the  Established  church,  which  the  English  were  trying 
to  force  upon  them. 

Near  the  stool  is  the  plain  box  of  a  pulpit  from  St. 
Giles's  Church,  in  which  John  Knox  used  to  preach  so 
vigorously,  that  '-he  was  like  to  ding  the  pulpit  ia 
splinters,  and  ^qq  out  of  it." 

In  the  same  room  is  the  "Maiden,"  the  Scottish 
guillotine,  in  which  a  sharpened  wedge-like  stone, 
attached  to  a  cord,  serves  for  an  axe.  This  stone  was 
wet  with  the  blood  of  Montrose,  and  of  many  solemn 
"  Covenanters." 

Tiie  "  Covenant,"  which  never  could  have  existed  out 
of  Scotland,  was  laid  on  a  tombstone  in  Grey  Friars 
churchyard  to  be  signed,  and  many  used  their  own 
blood  for  ink.  It  was  a  true  sign  of  the  blood  shed 
like  water  which  was  to  follow. 

The  Edinburgh  mob  has  always  been  a  fierce  one, 
with  a  deadly  grasp  on  its  rights.  One  of  the  charac- 
ters in  the  Heart  of  Mid  Lothian  expresses  its  feeling. 


A    WOMAN'S   VACATION.'  31 

"When  we  had  a  king  and  a  chancellor  and  parlia- 
ment, men  of  onr  ain,  we  could  e'en  peeble  them  with 
stanes,  when  they  were  na  good  bairns  —  but  naebody's 
naits  can  reach  the  length  of  Lunnon." 

The  hanging  of  Porteous  in  the  Grassmarket  by  tlie 
Edinburgh  mob  so  enraged  Queen  Caroline  of  England, 
when  she  heard  of  it,  that  she  threatened  to  make  Scot- 
land a  hunting-ground. 

The  famous  Duke  of  Argyle,  dear  to  Scottish  hearts, 
replied  with  a  deep  bow,  that  in  that  case  he  must  take 
leave  of  her  majesty  and  go  down  into  his  own  coun- 
try, to  get  his  hounds  ready.  It  was  the  same  Duke 
of  Argyle  who  befiiended  Jeanie  Deans. 

No  one  has  seen  Edinburgh  truly  who  does  not  drive 
through  the  Canongate,  the  once  aristocratic  street  of 
the  city,  built  up  by  the  nobility,  when  the  Stewarts 
were  in  their  glory.  Everything  was  done  there  that 
makes  Scotland  classic.  It  is  now  crowded  with  the 
poorest  of  the  poor,  and  full  of  ancient  and  fish-like 
smells.  To  Scott,  it  was  full  of  ghosts,  and  he  chal- 
lenged every  one  to  stand  and  deliver  his  story. 
Lockhart  says  that  "no  funeral  hearse  crept  slower  up 
the  Canongate  than  Scott's  landau." 

John  Knox's  house  stands  there  still,  full  of  gables 
and  diamond-paned  windows.  The  inscriptiofi  over 
the  door  is,  "Lufe-God-abafe-al-and-yi-nychbor-as-yi- 
self."  One  thinks  of  him  in  his  black  cap,  striding  out 
of  that  house,  boiling  with  righteous  wrath,  to  preach 
against  the  "  Monstrous  Regimen  of  Women."  Many 
men,  since  his  time,  have  wasted  their  breath  in  that 
vain  crusade,  and  to  less  puipose.  When  Queen  Mary 
sent  for  him,  hoping  to  moderate  his  zeal  against  her 


32  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

by  the  sight  of  her  charms,  if  he  had  the  spirit  of  a 
man  in  him,  he  "  knocked  so  hard  against  the  bejiutiful 
queen's  heart,  that  she  often  wept  bitterly."  He  had 
the  spirit  of  God  in  him,  over  whicli  her  blandish- 
ments had  no  power;  but  the  "Monstrous  Regimen  of 
Women "  hath  continued  unto  this  present,  and  the 
end  of  it  is  not  yet. 

A  noble  feature  of  Edinburgh  is  its  ancient  charity 
schools,  called  hospitals.  Chief  of  these  is  "Ileriot's," 
for  the  children  of  the  city ;  and  so  well  has  it  been 
mannged  by  the  magistrates  as  trustees,  that  the  fund 
now  supports  a  great  number  oT"  free  schools  all  over 
the  city,  as  well  as  the  hospital  itself 

George  Heriot  was  the  famous  goldsmith  of  James 
I.'s  time,  whom  Scott  puts  bodily  into  the  Fortunes 
of  Nigel.  James  I.  asked  him  what  was  the  use  of 
laying  up  money  when  he  had  no  heirs,  and  he  replied 
that  he  could  never  lack  heirs  while  there  were  orphan 
children  in  Edinburgh. 

Another  of  these  hospitals  prcrvides  generously,  as 
our  guide  expressed  it,  for  "poor  gentlemen's  sons 
through  no  fault  of  their  own." 

I  suppose  no  man  would  ever  be  the  son  of  a  poor 
gentleman  through  any  fault  of  his  own. 

The*" National  Gallery"  is  just  large  enough  to  give 
pleasure  without  fatigue.  It  is  enough  of  a  good 
thing;  another  picture  would  crowd  it.  The  crown 
of  it  is  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Grahame  by  Gainsborough, 
pure  and  proud  enough  to  have  only  the  blue  Douglas 
blood  in  her  veins.  It  proves  that  all  women  are  not 
born  free  and  equal,  if  men  are. 

The  quarrel  and  reconciliation  of  Oberon  and  Titania, 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  33 

by  Sir  N'oel  Paton,  the  Scotch  painter,  who  cannot  be 
enticed  away  from  Edinburgh  by  any  bribe,  are  pic- 
tures to  hang  themselves  in  every  memory,  as  well  as 
two  fair-haired  girls,  by  Grcuze,  intensely  kissable,  like 
all  faces  of  his  painting.  In  a  picture  of  Francesca  da 
Kimini  and  her  lover,  reading  the  book  which  tempted 
them,  is  a  kiss  that  makes  one's  cheek  warm  and  thrill 
for  sympathy.  The  jealous  husband  creeping  into  the 
background  is  a  blemish,  suggesting  sin,  when  in  the 
picture  and  in  the  story  there  is,  so  far  as  it  goes,  noth- 
ing but  innocence. 

Ary  Schoeffer  has  painted  the  afterclap  of  this  pic- 
ture, as  Dante  saw  these  same  lovers  floating  always 
together  through  his  Inferno,  and  Francesca  tells  liini 
that  — 

**A  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  reraembering  happier  things." 

A  wise  man  said  it,  and  perhaps  it  is  true ;  but  it 
seems  to  me  it  would  be  a  greater  sorrow  yet  never  to 
have  had  any  happy'things  to  remember.  An  agony 
is  better  than  emptiness. 

In  this  gallery  is  the  only  authentic  portrait  of 
Burns,  with  the  soft  but  brilliant  black  eyes,  melting 
and  fiery  at  once,  which  distinguished  his  otherwise 
ordinary  face. 

Burns  is  perhaps  dearer  to  the  Scottish  heart  than 
even  Scott,  on  the  principle  of  mothei-s  always  loving 
the  wayward  son  best. 

"That  is  Robert  Burns,  the  poet,"  said  the  custodian 
of  the  gallery  to  me  ;  "  perhaps  you  have  heard  of  him  ?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  I   have  seen  the  name  before,"  I 
said.     "  Was  he  anything  but  a  poet  ?  " 
3 


34  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

"  T  should  think  that  was  enough  for  one  man,"  he 
replied,  and  left  me  with  scorn  in  his  eyes. 

Can  it  be  possible  that  most  of  the  Americans  whom 
he  meets  in  that  gallery  liave  not  heard  of  Robert 
Burns?     That  was  my  painful  inference. 

In  every  place  where  a  portrait  can  hang  in  Edin- 
burgh you  find  the  face  of  that  James  who  joined 
England  and  Scotland  in  an  unwilling  marriage,  after 
a  long  and  stormy  courtship.  Nothing  but  royal  blood 
could  possibly  excuse  the  uncouth  face  and  awkward 
figure  of  this  only  son  of  a  beautiful  mother.  His  legs 
were  so  weak  that  he  could  not  stand  at  seven  years 
of  age,  and  through  life  he  was  alwnys  leaning  on 
men's  shoulders.  If  he  had  not  been  a  king,  no  shoul- 
der would  have  consented  to  hold  him  up.  The  de- 
scendant of  warriors,  he  must  needs  pad  himself  with 
a  dress  so  thickly  quilted  as  to  be  dagger  proof,  and  he 
trembled  at  a  drawn  sword.  His  mind  was  thoroughly 
cultivated,  but  to  so  little  purpose  that  Sully  called 
him  the  "wisest  fool  in  Europe."  The  Stewarts  were 
great  in  love,  in  war,  and  in  beauty,  but  the  most  un- 
lucky race  that  ever  reigned.  Of  them  all,  James  I. 
had  good  fortune,  and  nothing  else. 

To  walk  the  streets  of  Edinburgh  reading  the  signs, 
is  like  turning  over  the  pages  of  the  Waverley  novels. 
Some  great  names  have  come  wofully  down  in  the 
world,  such  as  Robert  Bruce,  Plasterer,  John  Knox, 
Baker,  or  James  Stewart,  Mercer.  I  praised  the  city 
to  one  of  the  Stewarts,  and  he  said,  "  Yes,  a  fine  city, 
with  mighty  little  money  in  it.  'A  penniless  lass  with 
a  long  pedigree." " 

No  one  should  turn  his  back  on  the  "Land  o'  Cakes" 


V 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  35 

^imont  tasting  the  porridge  and  oat  cake  that  make 
the  pvmcipal  food  of  the  country  people.  One  must  be 
born  toSihe  cakes  to  like  them.  They  taste  and  look 
most  like  1)he  dry  yeast  cakes  that  we  use  at  home  for 
sraising  brea^  It  comes  naturally  to  the  Scotch  tongue 
pbki'ildge  in  the  plural,  as  "they  are  too 
ill  take  a  few  porridge."  Another  Scotch 
of  mailnalade,  which  couM  not  be  more 
feu<l  liad  been  stirred  into  it. 
Johnson  defined  oatmeal  as  a  kind  of  strain 
horseXi^i  fingtrhid  and  men  in  Scotland. 
An  old  Scotch  nqblei^an  Kgreed  to  it,  and  asked  where 
one  could  find  such  horses  or  such  men.  Sydney 
Smith  said,  many  years  Hgi,  that  it  took  a  surgical 
operation  to  get  a  joke  intXa^ Scotchman's  head;  and 
not  until  a  recent  anniversa^j^  of  Scott's  birth  did  it 
occur  to  a  Scotchman  to  say  th^he  must  have  meant 
an  English  joke.  If  a  wit  tljro\vte  down  the  gauntlet 
to  Scotland,  he  had  better  keep  Lis  portcullis  down 
and  his  drawbridge  up  f6reverntQ|^,  for  the  enemy  is 
slow,  but  sure.  A  diet  of '^oatmeal,  through  all  the 
ages,  must  sharpen  both  the\^ose  and  temper  of  a 
nation.  The  Scotch  would  alvvays  rather  fight  than 
eat,  and  oatmeal  is  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

**  O,  thus  it  was  they  loved  them  dear, 
And  sought  how  to  requite  'em ; 
And  having  no  friends  left  hut  they, 
They  did  resolve  to  fight  *em." 

After  reading  Hawthorne's  exhaustive  description  of 
the  Burns's  country  and  relics,  there  is  not  much  use 
in  going  over  the  journey,  except  to  say  that  you  have 


36  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

been  there,  and  as  Chesterfield  told  his  son,  "  you  can 
say  that  just  as  well  without  going." 

The  excursion  to  the  Trosachs  (bristled  country) 
may  be  made  from  Edinburgh  and  return  in  a  day,  but 
it  is  too  hasty  for  comfort.  The  shortest  time  con- 
sistent with  enjoyment  is  three  days.  The  Trosachs 
were  almost  an  unknown  country  until  Scott  planted 
his  verses  all  over  it. 

If  you  have  but  a  few  days  to  give  to  Scotland, 
Edinburgh  deserves  them  all.  If  you  want  to  get  at 
the  heart  of  a  country,  you  will  find  it  most  surely  in 
its  capital  city.  Alexander  Smith,  the  Scotch  poet, 
whose  youth  promised  so  much  more  than  his  matu- 
rity performed,  describes  Edinburgh  «a8  a  lover  his 
mistress. 

"It  is  a  reposeful  place,  because  it  has  done  enough. 
Its  distinction  has  not  to  be  created  or  kept  up.  It  is 
an  education  in  itself.  Its  beauty  refines  one  like  being 
in  love.  It  is  perennial,  like  a  play  of  Shakspeare's : 
*  Nothing  can  stale  its  infinite  variety.'  London  is  the 
stomach  of  the  empire,  Edinburgh  its  subtle  and  far- 
darting  brain.  It  is  a  Weimar  without  its  Goethe,  a 
Boston  without  its  nasal  twang." 

In  our  last  Scotch  twilight,  which,  in  the  month  of 
June,  lasts  until  ten  o'clock,  we  walk  down  Princes 
Street  and  say  "  more  last  words "  to  Scott's  monu- 
ment, which  looks  as  if  the  lovely  fretted  spire  of 
some  Gothic  church  had  been  lifted  off  the  roof  and 
placed  over  his  statue. 

If  ever  we  find  a  year  lying  about  loose,  in  our  lives, 
with  no  work  laid  out  for  it,  we  will  spend  it  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  educate  ourselves  up  to  oatmeal. 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  87 


CHAPTER  III. 

SCOTLAND. 

"Up  the  craggy  mountain, 

And  down  the  mossy  glen, 
We  canna  gang  a  milking 
For  Charlie  and  his  men." 

"  Then  view  St.  David's  ruined  pile, 
And  home  returning,  soothly  swear 
Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair." 

AT  the  "  George  Inn,"  in  Melrose,  the  landlady, 
who  must  have  been  the  sweetest  of  Scotch  las- 
sies in  her  youth,  gives  one  such  a  welcome  as  in  our 
country  we  keep  for  relatives  who  are  rich  and  child- 
less. It  may  be  set  down  in  the  bill,  but  it  is  worth 
the  money. 

Abbotsford  is  three  or  four  miles  away,  on  a  well- 
travelled  road.  Every  reader  of  Lockhart's  Life  of 
Scott,  in  seven  volumes,  has  helped  to  build  this  "  ro- 
mance in  stone,"  at  least  with  sympathy.  One  has  al- 
most seen  Sir  Walter,  wlien  one  has  seen  the  house 
that  he  built  out  of  his  own  head.  Looking  only  at 
the  house,  what  a  head  it  must  have  been!  The  place 
has  fallen  at  last  to  Mary  Monica  IIoj)e-Scott,  a  great- 


38  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

granddaughter  of  Scott,  through  that  daughter  Sophia, 
who  married  Lockhart.  And  this  is  the  end  of  that 
fine  Scott  family  which  Sir  Walter  hoped  to  found, 
with  a  yearning  that  was  like  a  thirst  for  intensity !  — 
a  family  that  should  "  cock  up  its  beaver"  at  Abbots- 
ford  forever  and  ever,  in  memory  of  him. 

Miss  Hope-Scott  must  be  more  Hope  than  Scott, 
since  she  wishes  to  shut  up  the  place,  and  keep  it 
wholly  to  herself.  She  is  the  unwilling  keeper  of  the 
sacred  "Black  Stone  "  in  this  Mecca  of  tourists,  and 
goes  away  in  disgust  to  Edinburgh  when  the  travelling 
season  begins. 

Visitors  are  admitted  through  a  back  gate  and  nar- 
row stairs,  which  belittle  the  approach  to  the  house, 
and  give  an  unfortunate  first  impression  of  its  beauty. 

Mr.  Hope-Scott  added  a  wing  for  the  use  of  his  own 
family,  thus  yielding  up  to  Sir  Walter's  pilgrims  all 
the  rooms  in  which  he  had  lived  and  written. 

The  highest  interest  hangs  about  the  plain  little 
stuc\y,  with  a  gallery  and  a  little  staircase,  down  which 
he  used  to  steal  from  his  bedroom,  after  he  had  "  sim- 
mered "  his  chapters  in  his  head  during  the  hours  of 
dawn. 

It  was  this  habit  of  severe  morning  labor  which  en- 
abled him  to  keep  up  the  Waverley  mystery  so  many 
years ;  his  visitors,  whose  name  was  legion,  could  not 
believe  that  the  man  whom  they  saw  nearly  all  day 
and  evening  was  the  writer  of  two  or  three  novels  a 
year. 

An  Oxford  scholar  even  wrote  a  book  to  prove  that 
the  "Great  Unknown"  was  really  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
and  no  other.     He  also  proved,  1  think,  that  Oxford 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  39 

scholars  have  more  time  on  theh*  hands  than  they  know 
what  to  do  with,  then  as  now. 

Sir  Walter  was  bred  to  Scottish  law,  and  wrote  little 
before  he  was  thirty.  In  his  office  of  sheriff  he  scoured 
Scottish  country  thoroughly.  These  were  the  years  in 
which,  as  one  of  his  old  friends  expressed  it,  "  he  was 
niakin'  himseP."  He  said  of  his  profession  what  Slen- 
der said  of  his  intimacy  with  Mistress  Anne  Page: 
"There  was  no  great  love  between  us  at  the  beginning, 
and  it  pleased  Heaven  to  decrease  it  on  further  acquaint- 
ance;" but  it  gave  him  the  habit  of  steady  application, 
which  is  a  power  of  itself  in  the  world,  whether  genius 
is  tacked  to  it  or  not. 

In  this  study,  full  of  "small  old  volumes,  dark  with 
tarnished  gold,"  the  best  of  the  Waverley  novels  were 
written ;  and  here  the  last  clothes  that  he  wore,  and 
his  walking-sticks,  are  kept;  a  little  tower-room  leading 
out  of  it  contains  only  a  bronze  cast  of  his  head,  t;iken 
after  death  —  a  two-storied  brain-house,  with  a  swell 
front  and  deep-set  windows. 

The  study  opens  into  the  show-library  —  not  a  work- 
ing-room at  all,  but  rich  in  carving,  and  statues,  and 
things  curious  as  well  as  beautiful,  in  which  its  own- 
er delighted. 

A  hollow  table,  glass-covered,  holds  the  gold  snuff- 
boxes and  jewelled  daggers  and  miniatures,  sent  to 
Scott  by  other  famous  people. 

Here  is  the  furniture  presented  to  him  by  George 
IV.,  first  snob  in  Europe,  whom  his  loyal  spirit  must 
needs  reverence,  because  he  was  an  anointed  king.  , 

In  the  drawing-room  are  portraits  of  that  comfort- 
able old  lady,  Sir  Walter's  mother,  who  does  not  ap- 


40  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

pear  to  have  been  the  source  of  her  son's  genius,  and 
of  his  wife,  a  handsome,  but  dissatisfied-looking  woman. 
Lockhart  says  no  more  about  her  in  the  *^  Life  "  than 
he  can  help  saying ;  but  no  one  expects  a  very  glowing 
description,  from  any  author,  of  his  mother-in-law. 
Some  of  the  journals  kept  by  her  visitors  call  her  "  an 
insignificant  little  French  woman;"  but  the  journal  of 
her  husband,  kept  through  many  of  his  best  years,  shows 
that  he  loved  her  heartily  while  she  lived,  and  mourned 
her  sorrowfully  when  she  died.  A  woman  may  be 
said  to  have  a  successful  career  if  she  pleases  her  hus- 
band all  her  life ;  she  would  be  more  than  mortal  if 
she  satisfied  his  friends. 

Scott  fell  in  love,  in  his  youth,  with  a  lady  of  higher 
rank  than  his  own,  like  Quentin  Durward  and  others 
•of  his  heroes,  but,  unlike  them,  he  was  soon  and  bit- 
terly disappointed.  He  took  it  bravely,  as  he  took  all 
outrageous  blows  of  fortune,  and  said  of  himself  long 
after,  ''  Broken-hearted  for  two  years,  my  heart  hand- 
somely pieced  again,  but  the  crack  will  remain  till  my 
dying  day." 

I  think  no  woman  deserved  to  be  called  "  insignifi- 
cant" who  could  "  handsomely  piece  "  a  heart  like  his. 
It  was  scornfully  said,  too,  that  she  loved  to  be  called 
Lady  Scott;  but  there  are  few  women  so  strong-minded 
that  a  title  would  not  lay  a  flattering  unction  to  their 
souls. 

The  famous  picture  of  Queen  Mary's  head,  after  exe- 
cution, painted  by  one  Cawood,  hangs  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  has  a  weird,  sorrowful  beauty  about  it,  but 
it  is  so  toned  down  as  to  have  nothing  ghastly  to  the 
eyes,  like  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist,  passed  round 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  41 

in  platters,  in  so  many  pictures.  The  dining-room  is 
only  shown  to  visitors  when  Miss  Hope-Scott  is  away. 
It  is  hung  with  family  portraits;  one  of  a  lovely  cousin, 
called  the  "Flower  of  Yarrow,"  and  another  of  Beardie 
Scott,  an  ancestor,  who  wouhl  never  cut  his  beard 
after  Charles  I.  was  beheaded.  It  was  a  queer  old 
fashion  to  wear  long  hair  for  mourning.  Scott  had  his 
bed  moved  into  this  room  in  bis  last  days,  that  he 
might  listen  to  the  ripple  of  the  beloved  Tweed,  which 
flowed  gently  past  the  windows. 

He  had  drank  deep  o/  riches,  and  honor,  and  wisdom, 
but  his  last  words  to  Lockhart  were,  "  Be  good,  my 
dear." 

The  walls  of  Abbotsford  are  lined  inside  and  out 
with  quaint  reminders  of  Scotch  history  and  heroism  — 
the  money-box  of  Queen  Mary,  which  could  never  have 
had  much  money  in  it,  in  the  best  of  her  fortunes; 
the  purse  of  Rob  Roy,  that  had  a  pistol  in  the  clasp ; 
and  many  old  suits  of  armor,  which  bear  the  dent  of 
good  English  blows,  the  sort  that  the  Scotch  were  ever 
fond  of.  A  bust  of  Wordsworth  refines  the  hall,  which 
would  otherwise  be  all  Scotch.  It  is  told  of  Scotti 
that  when  he  visited  that  brother  poet  at  Rydal  Mount, 
he  was  forced  to  slip  away  privately,  at  least  once  a  day, 
to  some  secluded  inn,  where  he  sustained  bis  inner  man 
with  more  substantial  food  than  sufiiced  for  Words- 
worth's necessities. 

"  He  still  went  on  refining, 

When  others  thought  of  dining." 

Among  the  other  old  iron  in  the  hall  at  Abbotsford 
is  the   "  branks,"  a  sort  of  iron   bridle,   with   a   gag, 


42  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

which  used  to  be  fitted  to  the  heads  of  incorrigible 
scolds,  while  they  were  led  through  the  streets.  A 
chivalrous  old  gentleman,  who  had  joined  our  party, 
held  up  this  rusty  bit  of  old  tyranny. 

"Time  changes  all  things,"  he  said;  "w^omen  never 
scold  now." 

"No,"  said  his  degenerate  son;  "they  only  have 
viewsP 

The  guide  huriied  each  party  through  the  rooms  at 
railroad  speed,  rattling  off  the  story  of  each  faster 
than  a  monk  ever  told  his  beads.  Abbotsford  saw 
much  good  company  in  its  short  day;  half  England, 
and  all  Scotland,  came  to  visit  the  most  noted  man  of 
the  age ;  but  it  was  never  lighted,  and  its  utmost  beauty 
brought  out  from  top  to  bottom,  except  once,  when  a 
ball  was  given  to  celebrate  the  marriage  of  the  oldest 
son.  Even  then,  the  battalion  of  misfortunes  was 
gathering,  to  break  upon  Sir  Walter  from  every  side, 
and  no  man  ever  took  arms  more  bravely  in  a  sea  of 
troubles. 

Carlyle  says,  with  his  savage  truthfulness,  which  cuts 
deeper  than  any  lie,  that  "the  works  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott  amused  the  world,  but  did  nothing  to  amend  it." 
He  himself  smiled  at  his  own  "  big,  bow-wow  style," 
as  he  called  it ;  but  he  put  into  his  life  all  the  conscience 
and  sin)ple  earnestness  that  were  lacking  in  his  books. 
When  the  publishing  firm  of  which  he  was  a  member 
failed,  he  took  all  its  debts,  of  more  than  half  a  mil- 
lion of  dollars,  and  in  four  years  coined  two  thirds  of  it 
out  of  his  brain  for  the  patient  creditors,  who  had  faith 
in  him.  He  fought  one  of  the  great  battles  of  peace, 
such  as  no  man  fought  before  or  since,  and  deserved  to 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION,  43 

wear  the  title  that  Napoleon  gave  to  Marshal  Ney 
after  the  Russian  campaign,  "  the  bravest  of  the  brave." 
He  died  in  harness,  dictating  imaginary  conversation 
for  new  heroes,  after  his  faithful  brain  had  failed  him. 
He  had  the  old-fashioned  virtue  of  loyalty  to  church 
and  state,  and  could  never  be  brought  to  believe  that 
all  men  are  born  free  and  equal ;  but  he  did  certainly 
amend  this  world  by  living  honestly  and  nobly  in  it  all 
his  days.  He  is  buried  in  Dryburgh  Abbey,  in  St. 
Mary's  aisle,  a  ruin  live  or  six  miles  irom  Melrose,  in  a 
direction  opposite  to  Abbotsford.  It  is  beautiful  for 
situation,  with  just  roof  enough  left  to  cover  the  few 
graves  that  have  privilege  there. 

Sir  Walter  lies  between  his  wife  and  his  eldest  son, 
second  and  hist  baronet  of  the  name,  that  well  beloved 
son,  six  feet  and  four  inches  high,  officer  in  a  splendid 
hussar  regiment,  who  was  to  found  a  long  line  of  hon- 
orable Scotts,  and  on  whose  probable  children  Abbots- 
ford  was  settled  on  his  marriage. 

These  "probable  children,"  like  many  others  men- 
tioned in  aristocratic  deeds  and  settlements,  never  ex- 
isted, except  on  paper;  and  the  only  remaining  son  died 
unmarried. 

The  childless  wife  of  the  elder  son  is  still  living,  but 
never  comes  to  Abbotsford,  having  no  claim  upon  it, 
since  she  failed  to  provide  an  owner.  The  heathen 
wives  of  India,  when  they  lack  children,  prostrate 
themselves  before  the  idol  of  Life  and  Death,  and  be- 
seech him  continually,  with  flowers  and  baths  of  holy 
water,  to  grant  their  desire.  One  tall  image  of  Shiva, 
near  Calcutta,  has  been  nearly  washed  away  by  the 
devotion  of  women.    I  suppose  their  rich  and  titled 


44  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

sisters  in  Great  Britain  have  often  prayed  like  them, 
with  tears  and  groanings  that  could  not  be  uttered,  for 
the  "  blessing  of  the  poor."  I  cannot  imagine  a  more 
gnawing  pain  for  a  woman,  both  good  and  proud,  than 
to  see  an  old  title  and  a  splendid  inheritance  pass  to 
some  fjir-away  cousin,  because  Heaven  has  denied  her 
children. 

The  bare  walls  of  one  or  two  rooms  in  old  Dryburgh 
remain  standing,  the  chapel  and  refectory;  and  a  great 
rose  window  hung  with  ivy,  more  lovely  in  its  last  es- 
tate than  when  it  bloomed  with  stained  glass,  and  cast 
many-colored  reflections  in  red,  and  yellow,  and  purple 
on  the  shaven  crowns  of  the  monks. 

The  dungeon  for  restive  brethren,  who  must  some- 
times have  been  bored  to  death  with  paternosters  and 
fasting,  is  shown,  with  the  holes  for  forcing  in  their 
hands.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  ingenious  brother 
who  contrived  this  mode  of  torture  had  a  chance  to 
try  it  for  himself  before  he  left  this  sinful  world.  A 
modern  story  hangs  like  another  cobweb  to  the  wall  of 
this  dungeon.  A  young  woman,  who  bore  traces  of 
great  beauty,  inhabited  it  for  several  years,  coming  out 
only  at  night  in  search  of  food.  She  had  made  a  vow 
never  to  look  upon  the  sun,  and  was  found  dead  in  her 
cell  at  last.  No  one  knew  whence  she  came,  or  what 
had  turned  her  head ;  but  the  worthy  souls  who  kept 
her  from  starving  thought  that  she  had  a  disappoint- 
ment. "Men  have  died,  and  worms  have  eaten  them, 
but  not  for  love,"  said  one  who  knew  whereof  he  spoke  ; 
but  he  never  meant  it  to  apply  to  women. 

They  show  you  at  Dryburgh  a  yew  tree,  seven  hun- 
dred years  old,  which  must  remember  the  monks  when 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION,  \         45 

they  were  seeing  their  better  days ;  it  keeps  their 
secrets  well,  and  if  the  guide  had  said  it  was  seven  thou- 
sand years  old,  I  know  not  how  we  could  have  dis- 
puted him. 

The  village  of  Melrose  clusters  closely  about  its 
own  abbey,  which  would  be  absolutely  perfect  as  a 
ruin  but  for  the  remaining  wall  of  a  Presbyterian 
church,  which  w\is  built  within  it. 

The  old  Catholic  images  of  the  Virgin  and  St.  Brid- 
get have  just  noses  enough  lefl  to  turn  up  at  this  dese- 
cration. The  stout  heart  of  Robert  Bruce  is  buried 
there,  and  what  there  was  lefl  of  the  Black  Douglas, 
after  all  his  raids,  as  well  as  the  whole  body  of  Michael 
Scott,  — 

"A  wizard  of  such  dreaded  fame, 
That  when  in  Salamanca's  cave 
Him  listed  his  magic  wand  to  wave. 
The  bells  would  ring  in  Notre  Dame.* 

In  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  William  of  Delo- 
raine  is  sent  to  open  this  same  grave  at  midnight,  and 
to  take  away  the  magical  book  which  had  taught  the 
wizard  all  his  tricks.  Some  old  carvings,  crumbling 
fast  into  dust,  are  still  called  by  Catholic  names,  and 
remind  us  dimly  of  that  pious  King  David  of  Scotland, 
sometimes  called  St.  David,  who  endowed  Melrose,  and 
many  other  religious  houses,  so  generously,  that  he  was 
called  "a  sore  saint  for  the  crown."  Nothin":  remains 
of  him  but  a  broken  head  or  two,  high  up  on  the 
arches  of  the  abbey.  He  had  far  better,  for  his  fame, 
have  written  psalms,  like  the  king  he  was  named  for; 
a  poem  outlasts  many  temples. 


46  .  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

A  graveyard  surrounds  the  old  walls,  where  Scott's 
faithful  old  servants  are  buried;  one  of  them  —  Tom 
Purdy  by  name  —  did  so  outrage  his  patience,  that  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  send  him  away.  * 

"I  am  afraid,  Tom,  that  we  must  part,"  said  Sir 
Walter,  at  last. 

"Where  is  your  honor  thinking  of  going?"  an- 
swered Tom,  with  such  utter  trust,  that  his  master  re- 
pented himself,  and  kept  him  twenty  years. 

The  guide  remarked  that  the  graveyard  contained 
only  modern  graves,  none  earlier  than  1620. 

When  we  remembered  that  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  first 
set  foot  on  Plymouth  Rock,  and  Boston  was  a  howling 
wilderness  in  that  year,  we  veiled  our  faces,  and  felt 
that  we  Americans  were  indeed  a  modern  people,  hav- 
ing no  roots  to  speak  of  anywhere. 

Next  to  Abbotsford  in  interest,  and  far  beyond  it  in 
beauty,  because  Nature  took  a  contract  ages  ago  to 
beautify  them,  are  the  twin  estates  of  Hawthornden 
and  Roslyn.  The  traveller,  who  divides  a  day  between 
them,  hath  great  reward.  If  happily,  poets  were  made, 
not  born,  the  family  of  Drummond  would  all  have  been 
poets,  by  virtue  of  living,  through  a  long  pedigree,  on 
the  romantic  estate  of  Hawthornden.  Only  one  was 
born  to  it,  however  —  Sir  William  Drummond,  whose 
soul  was  so  steeped  in  loyalty,  that  he  could  not  even 
write  of  love,  unless  it  were  kingly  love ;  and  when  the 
news  of  the  murder  of  Charles  I.  was  broken  suddenly 
to  him,  he  died  of  the  shock.  His  picturesque  old 
house,  which  seems  as  much  at  home  in  the  landscape 
as  any  tree  in  the  park,  is  perched  on  a  high  rock,  like 
a  bird's  nest.    Over  against  it  is  a  glorious  old  syca- 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  47 

more,  a  tree  of  trees,  christened  the  "  Four  Sisters," 
which  sheltered  the  poet  when  his  friend  Ben  Jonson 
walked  all  the  way  from  London  to  visit  him.  Near 
the  house  there  are  curious  caves  dug  out  of  the  solid 
rock  by  men's  hands,  nobody  knows  when,  in  which 
the  Bruce  kept  himself  in  hiding  for  three  or  four  years 
at  a  time.  It  was  a  dear  price  to  pay  for  being  king, 
at  last,  of  the  poor  realm  of  Scotland.  His  hacked 
and  rusty  old  sword,  four  or  five  feet  long,  is  still  pre- 
eerved  in  the  cave.  There  were  giants  in  those  days  I 
The  old  entrance  to  the  caves  was  over  a  well,  so  that 
an  unexpected  visitor  got  a  wet  welcome. 

The  River  Esk  makes  a  deep  and  precipitous  ravine 
through  the  length  of  the  estate.  This  was  a  famous 
retreat  for  Covenanters  when  the  red-coats  were  after 
them ;  and  a  projecting  rock  is  shown  where  John 
Knox  used  to  stand,  and  stay  their  souls  with  strong 
preaching. 

The  path  to  Roslyn  lies  through  a  posteni  gate,  up 
and  down  both  sides  of  the  ravine,  sometimes  running 
against  a  flight  of  rough  8tej)s,  and  again  narrowing  to 
a  foot  in  width,  the  water  on  one  side,  and  a  sheer  wall 
of  rock,  mossy  and  flower-flecked,  on  the  other. 

The  flowers  are  the  blue-bells  of  Scotland,  not  un- 
Hke  our  hyacinth  in  shape,  but  of  the  color  of  summer 
sky ;  the  ground  is  snowy  in  spots,  with  the  blossom 
of  the  wild  onion  onlv  fair  to  see. 

The  Esk  is  but  a  tame  little  brook  in  June,  yet  in 
some  seasons  it  roars  through  its  rocky  prison  to  a  very 
diflerent  tune.  The  path  is  slippery  with  springs,  and 
a  spice  of  danger  adds  the  last  touch  to  its  beauty. 
The  Esk  dances  into  many  of  Scott's  verses  — 


48  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

**  Sweet  are  the  paths,  O,  passing  sweet! 
By  Esk's  fair  stream  that  run. 
O'er  airy  steep,  through  copsewood  deep, 
Impervious  to  the  sun." 

And  when  the  young  Lochinvar  stole  the  fair  Ellen 
from  her  father's  house  — 

"  He  swam  the  Esk  River,  where  ford  there  was  none. 

*  They  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,'  quoth  young  Lochinvar." 

The  path  brings  us  at  last  to  Roslyn  Chapel,  a  feast 
of  Gothic  carving.  It  was  built  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury (ask  the  guide-book  if  I  am  not  right),  by  an 
ancient  St.  Clair  (or  Sinkler,  as  the  Scotch  call  it),  who 
bet  his  head  with  the  king  that  his  dogs  "Help" 
and  "  Hold "  would  bring  down  a  certain  white  deer 
that  had  escaped  the  hunters  many  times.  In  the 
moment  of  another  escape,  he  vowed  to  God  to  build 
a  church  for  his  glory ;  and  as  he  made  this  holy  resolve, 
the  dogs  sprang  on  the  deer,  so  that  Lord  Roslyn  saved 
his  head,  and  dainty  Roslyn  Chapel  shows  to  this  day 
what  a  tremendous  value  he  set  upon  it.  Not  many 
heads  are  worth  such  a  price!  The  old  lords  were 
buried  beneath  it,  in  full  suits  of  armor,  as  if  even  in 
death  they  could  not  rest  unless  they  were  ready  for 
the  fighu. 

The  "'Prentice's  Pillar,"  "foliage-bound,"  differs  from 
all  the  others  in  being  twined  from  base  to  top  with  a 
thick  but  delicate  wreath  of  leaves  and  flowers. 
There  is  a  tragical  story  clinging  around  it,  like  an- 
other vine.  The  master-mason  who  built  the  chapel 
could  not  understand  this  part  of  the  plan  sent  to  him 
from  Rome,  and  while  he  journeyed  thither  to  study  it, 


A  WOMAN'S  VACATION.  49 

with  its  author,  one  of  his  apprentices  continued  the 
work ;  and  on  the  master's  return  he  was  so  filled  with 
wrath  and  envy  at  sight  of  the  exquisite  pillar  which 
had  baffled  his  own  skill,  that  he  killed  the  boy  on  the 
spot. 

Every  square  inch  of  the  chapel  is  worthy  of  study, 
and  has  its  own  history.  Much  of  the  dainty  elabo- 
ration seems  wasted,  but  the  masons  and  carvers 
of  the  middle  ages  did  their  work  with  equal  pains- 
taking, whether  men's  eyes  were  ever  to  behold  it  or 
not. 

They  carved  lovely  wreaths  and  crosses,  and  shut 
them  up,  without  a  sigh,  in  dark  cellars,  or  hid  them 
behind  walls,  because,  according  to  their  motto,  "God 
saw  everything."  How  would  they  cross  themselves 
with  holy  horror  at  the  stucco-work  and  sham  architec- 
ture of  this  century ! 

In  one  small  cap  to  an  archway  in  Roslyn  Chapel 
are  people  practising  the  seven  cardinal  virtues  —  feed- 
ing the  hungry,  clothing  the  naked,  cfcc, —  with  St.  Petei* 
and  his  keys  at  the  end,  to  let  them  all  into  heaven. 
On  the  reverse  are  examples  of  the  seven  deadly  sins, 
with  Satan  coming  out  of  a  crocodile's  mouth  to  gob- 
ble them  up. 

One  would  not  notice  this  small  stone  treatise  at  all, 
if  the  guide  did  not  point  it  out  in  the  sing-song  drawl 
invented  by  the  father  of  all  guides,  for  the  torment 
of  travellers. 

It  was  a  tradition  of  Roslyn,  that  when  one  of  the 
family  was  about  to  die,  the  chapel  appeared  enveloped 
in  flames;  and   Scott  has  woven  it  into  his  ballad  of 
"JFair  Rosabelle." 
4 


60  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

Service  is  held  in  it  every  Sunday,  though  the  owner 
lives  at  Dysart  House,  thirty  miles  away.  There  are 
velvet  cushions  for  his  using,  and  plain  boards  for  the 
"great  unwashed." 

The  chapel  is  kept  in  repair  by  the  shilling  fee  ex- 
acted of  every  visitor;  a  perpetual  shilling  in  the 
glove  is  the  only  talisman  that  carries  one  safe  through 
the  British  empire.  It  levies  a  larger  tax  on  our  coun- 
try now  than  it  ever  could  if  we  had  remained  its 
colony. 

We  ate  a  very  small  lunch  for  a  very  large  price  at 
the  Roslyn  Hotel,  and  were  then  told  by  a  vampire, 
who  had  been  permitted  to  take  the  shape  of  a  man 
and  a  brother,  that  the  railway  station  was  "just 
round  the  corner."  Now,  the  corner  was  half  a  mile 
away,  and  after  we  had  turned  it,  the  station  fled  be- 
fore us,  as  we  devoured  the  way,  for  at  least  two  miles 
more. 

We  missed  our  train,  of  course,  and  nothing  but 
utter  exhaustion  prevented  our  instant  return  to  the 
hotel,  and  the  putting  to  death  of  that  unworthy  Scots- 
man, without  benefit  of  clergy.  We  cherish  the  hope 
that  we  may  some  time  meet  him  in  Boston,  when  we 
will  straightway  beguile  him  into  the  purlieus  of  Dock 
Square,  swear  to  him  that  Niagara  Falls  are  "just 
round  the  corner,"  and  there  leave  him,  in  serene 
confidence  that  he  will  never  find  his  way  out  in  this 
life. 

Good  society  in  Scotland  is  like  that  of  England  ;  I 
suppose  there  is  but  one  pattern  for  it  among  Saxon 
people ;  but  the  inhabitants  of  the  cottnges  and  the 
crowd  on  the  city  street  are  no  more  of  one  blood 


A    WOMAN* S    VACATION,  51 

with  the  English  than  they  were  in  the  dayp  of  the 
Border  fights.  The  long,  keen  faces  resemble  the  type 
of  New  England;  they  are  disposed  to  question,  rather 
than  to  affirm ;  their  minds  are  cast  in  the  subiuno- 
tive  mood ;  your  coachman  will  say,  "  This  is  John 
Knox's  house  ;  you  might  have  heard  of  it.     Eh  ?  " 

An  intense  curiosity  leavens  their  nature;  you  may 
wander  all  day  in  English  streets,  and  no  one  will  give 
you  a  second  look,  scarcely  a  first  one ;  but  in  Scot- 
land the  women  will  drop  their  first-born,  and  leave 
the  porridge  to  burn,  to  run  to  their  doors  to  look  at  a 
stranger. 

The  Scotch  love  old  customs,  such  as  keeping 
up  the  sanctuary  for  debtors  about  the  precincts  of 
Holyrood  (there  is  a  certain  stone  in  the  Canon- 
gate  that  marks  the  limit ;  and  if  the  fleeing  debtor 
passes  that  line,  he  is  safe  from  the  sheriff) ;  but 
they  will  suffer  a  slight  change  in  their  ways,  if,  after 
a  hundred  or  two  years  of  consideration,  the^^  per- 
ceive that  it  will  tend  to  their  interest.  Not  eveh 
this  motive  seems  to  reconcile  the  English  to  a  new 
wrinkle  in  the  everlasting  face  of  things. 

The  Scotch  themselves  would  probably  be' the  last 
to  claim  any  affinity  with  Americans,  though  they  have 
ample  chance  to  study  them. 

In  the  month  of  June  four  thousand  travelling 
Americans  had  already  passed  through  Edinburgh  —  an 
army  which  pays  well  for  its  own  ravages. 

Carriage  hire  is  the  one  cheap  thing  in  Scotland ; 
an  open  carriage  for  four  will  take  you  up  hill  and 
down  for  seventy-five  cents  an  hour;  but  before  the 
next  American  invoice    of   four    thousand  souls  shall 


52  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

reach  them,  they  will   doubtless    have  amended   the 
matter. 

In  the  old  days  of  Scotland,  it  was  no  disgrace, 
and  scarcely  an  inconvenience,  to  be  poor;  to  them, 
learning  was  most  excellent,  and  students  begged 
their  education  from  door  to  door,  thinking  no  shame. 


A   WOMAIS'S    VACATION,  53 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FROM   EDINBURGH   TO   LONDON". 
"Every  Englishman  is  an  island."  —  Novalis. 

EVERY  village  between  Edinburgh  and  London 
tempts  one  to  leave  the  train,  and  make  it  a 
study.  The  cottages  of  the  English  poor  may  be 
damp,  unwholesome,  poverty-stricken  holes,  more  fit 
for  the  burrows  of  rabbits  than  for  the  homes  of  hu- 
manity; but  at  a  distance,  their  thatched  roofs  and  gray 
walls  make  a  continual  gallery  of  pictures.  One  looks 
in  vain  for  the  pert  white  cottages  with  green  blinds, 
which,  in  America,  defy  the  landscape,  but  insure  health 
and  cleanliness  to  the  inmates. 

The  village  churches  date  back  to  the  monkish  times, 
in  many  instances,  and  look  down  on  all  around  them 
w^ith  such  superior  beauty,  that  the  first  impression  is 
of  a  devout  community  giving  all  their  possessions  to 
make  glorious  their  tabernacle,  like  the  Jews  in  the 
wilderness,  content  to  live  from  hand  to  mouth  if  only 
their  God  be  well  served. 

We  chose  York  for  our  half-way  house  for  the  sake 
of  its  cathedral  —  an  epic  poem  in  stone,  too  cold  and 
perfect  for  love,  but  filling  the  measure  of  admiration 


64  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

to  the  brim.  One  would  be  more  homesick  for  the 
broken  and  homely  arches  of  Chester,  but  Yorkshire- 
men  may  boast  forever  of  the  loveliness  of  their  min- 
ster; human  nature  seems  always  to  love  best  that 
which  is  like  itself,  not  too  perfect. 

It  is  easy  to  say  that  York  Minster  is  five  hundred 
and  twenty-four  feet  lortg,  or  that  in  the  year  669  glass 
was  first  put  in  the  windows  that  birds  might  no  longer 
fly  in  and  out,  and  defile  the  sanctuary —  one  may  meas- 
ure but  not  describe  it.  It  traces  its  glorious  propor- 
tions on  the  memory  like  the  images  of  a  solemn  and 
stately  dream,  that  would  fall  down  and  break  in  the 
telling.  There  is  an  inscription  somewhere  on  its  walls 
that  expresses  it :  —  . 

"  As  is  the  rose  the  flower  of  flowers, 
So  of  houses  is  this  of  ours."  ^ 

Ruskin  calls  some  parts  of  it  "confectioners' Gothic;" 
but  one  can  only  hope  that  Ruskin's  case  may  be  tried 
in  the  next  world,  if  not  in  this,  by  a  jury  of  artists  and 
master-masons. 

The  music  of  the  boy-choir  is  soul-satisfying,  but  all 
the  spoken  part  of  the  service  might  as  well  be  the 
rattling  of  dry  bones,  the  sound  is  so  completely 
muddled  by  echoes.  The  great  cathedrals  are  houses 
for  praise  and  prayer,  not  for  preaching. 

On  our  way  out  of  church,  one  of  the  seven  pil- 
grims, who  saunter  through  this  book  with  me,  was 
suddenly  transfixed  under  the  central  tower,  possessed 
with  its  beauty ;  there  she  stood  with  head  tipped 
back,  and  her  face  lightened  with  the  same  look  that 
it  will  wear  when  she  sees  the  pearly  gates. 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  55 

Beauty  is  meat  and  drink  to  her,  and  she  might  be 
standing  tliere  now  but  for  a  black-robed  .verger  (to 
whom  the  central  tower  was  an  every-day  affair),  who 
led  her  gently,  but  firmly,  to  the  door,  and  shut  her  out 
of  her  paradise. 

There  is  still  a  well-preserved  tomb  to  the  little  son 
of  Edward  III.  and  Philippa,  who  gave  five  marks  and 
five  nobles  a  year,  forever,  to  purchase  prayers  for  his 
soul.  They  have  ceased  to  pray  for  his  soul,  if  they 
ever  did  it,  but  the  sura  is  still  paid  to  the  dean  and 
chapter.  In  England,  a  thousand  years  are  as  one 
day. 

The  archbishop's  palace  is  a  little  out  of  town,  but 
the  deanery  is  beautiful  enough  for  a  prince. 

An  English  clergyman  holding  a  high  office  in  a 
cathedral,  after  inducting  four  sons  into  fat  livings,  is 
said  to  have  quoted  the  verse,  "As  for  me  and  my 
house,  we  will  serve  the  Lord."  Nothing  in  all  Eng- 
land so  probed  Hawthorne's  vein  of  satire  as  the  luxury 
of  its  clergy.  "  Every  cathedral-close  in  turn  has  seemed 
to  me  the  loveliest,  cosieit,  safest,  least  wind-shaken,  and 
most  enjoyable  shelter  that  ever  the  thrift  and  selfish- 
ness of  mortal  man  contrived  for  himself  How  de- 
lisrhtful  to  combine  all  this  with  the  service  of  the 
temple ! " 

A  cultivated  Englishman  said  to  me  of  Our  Old 
Home,  "I  know  that  Hawthorne  received  constant 
kindness  and  admiration  in  England;  but  if  he  had 
been  insulted  and  trampled  on  every  day  of  his  life  by 
Englishmen,  he  could  not  have  written  a  bitterer  book 
about  us." 

The  walls  of  York  are  broken  and  battered  to  the 


66  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

ground,  in  many  places,  more  by  war  than  time,  but 
what  there  is  left  of  them  is  religiously  preserved.  In 
the  wars  of  the  Roses,  the  head  of  a  Duke  of  York, 
with  a  paper  crown  on  it,  was  fixed  to  one  of  the  gates 
that  "York  might  overlook  the  town  of  York."  Coney 
street  is  the  finest  street  of  York,  formerly  "  Conynge," 
the  old  Saxon  word  for  Jcing^  meaning  "  the  man  who 
can ; "  the  word  and  the  meaning  are  equally  corrupted 
in  these  latter  days,  for  the  king  is  more  often  than  not 
the  man  who  can't. 

In  a  long,  vagabond  walk  about  the  city,  we  stumbled 
on  the  old  church  of  St.  Cuthbert,  founded  in  1066, 
soon  after  the  coming  over  of  William  the  Conqueror. 
The  oaken  doors  are  black  as  the  nails  that  stud  them, 
and  the  pathway  to  the  entrance  is  paved  thick  with 
gravestones,  as  if  the  bodies  beneath  had  not  lost  inter- 
est in  the  church-goers  that  followed  them. 

The  people  of  York,  like  other  city  people,  have  their 
angles  of  temper  and  dialect  well  rubbed  off,  but  the 
country  side  of  Yorkshire  has  a  language  almost  unin- 
telligible in  London. 

For  looks,  Robert  Collyer  says  that  the  men  of  his 
shire  resemble  him  in  square  solidity  of  frame,  and  for 
character,  Charlotte  Bronte  has  carved  out  a  type  in 
her  books,  which  is  acknowledged  to  be  perfect. 

In  her  part  of  the  shire,  the  barren  moors  make  all 
the  landscape  purple  with  heather ;  and  so  poor  is  the 
region  about  Haworth,  where  she  lived,  that  it  has 
come  to  be  a  proverb  in  Yorkshire,  when  one  knows 
not  which  way  to  turn  for  poverty,  "  You  must  do  as 
they  do  in  Haworth  —  do  as  you  can."  Poverty  has 
so  hardened  their  hearts  and  sharpened  their  wits,  that 


A   WOMAN* S    VACATION.  57 

no  one  can  overreach  them  in  a  bargain ;  and  so  tena- 
cious are  they  of  old  grudges  that  they  "  will  carry  a 
stone  in  their  pockets  seven  years,  then  turn  it,  carry  it 
seven  years  more,  and  throw  it  at  last." 

We  were  in  hot  haste  to  reach  London  before  "  the 
season  "  should  be  over.  It  comes  to  an  end  about  the 
first  of  July,  with  the  closing  of  Parliament,  and  every 
one  who  has  a  house* of  his  own,  or  an  invitation  from 
a  friend,  goes  into  the  country.  According  to  fashion- 
able novels,  London  is  empty;  but  it  is  no  more  emp- 
ty tlian  a  panful  of  milk-  after  the  cream  has  been 
skimmed  off. 

You  can  see  the  old  churches,  and  palaces,  and  by- 
ways at  any  time, — 

"  You  never  tread  upon  them  but  you  set 
Your  foot  upon  some  ancient  history, — 

but  in  driving  up  and  down  Rotten  Row  in  Hyde  Park, 
you  see  the  people  who  make  history. 

Thousands  of  carriages,  plain  or  coroneted,  move 
slowly  up  and  down  the  Row,  from  the  gates  to  the 
"  Albert  Memorial,"  one  of  the  most  tremendous  tomb- 
stones ever  raised  by  a  disconsolate  widow  to  the  dear 
departed.  At  each  corner  of  the  foundation  are  co- 
lossal groups  representing  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  and 
America ;  then  four  broad  flights  of  steps  close  around 
a  marble  pedestal,  carved  in  very  high  relief,  with  fig- 
ures of  all  the  most  famous  men  in  literature  and  art. 
Above  them  is  the  sitting  statue  of  Prince  Albert  of 
Saxe  Cobourg,  and  over  all  is  a  pointed  stone  canopy 
rising  high  in  air,  and  glittering  as  pounds   sterling 


58  BEATEN  PATHS,  (9i? 

could  make  it,  with  gilding  and  brilliant  colors.  It  is 
a  barbaric  feast  to  the  eye;  tlie  only  discrepancy  about 
it  is  Prince  Albert  himself;  perched  up  above  all  the 
nobility  of  talent,  he  has  the  effect  of  an  anti-climax. 
It  is  like  one  of  the  Pharaohs  building  a  pyramid  in 
which  to  bury  a  sacred  cow.  If  there  were  to  be  so 
noble  a  monument  to  EngHsh  wealth  and  pride,  it 
would  seem  that  English  history  could  afford  a  more 
famous  name  to  crown  it  than  that  of  a  handsome  Ger- 
man princeling,  who  had  the  luck  to  marry  a  queen,  to 
beget  nine  heirs  to  the  throne,  and  to  amuse  himself 
with  literature  and  art,  when  the  jealous  commons  left 
him  nothing  else  to  do. 

Authors  need  no  princely  patrons  in  these  days;  that 
occupation  is  gone  from  rich  people. 

A  hundred  years  hence,  when  an  English  child  looks 
at  this  "  Memorial,"  and  insists  on  knowing  what  Prince 
Albert  was  famous  for,  the  only  answer  can  be,  that  he 
won  the  love  of  the  richest  woman  in  England. 

The  carriages  that  crowd  the  Row  between  ^y^  and 
seven  in  the  afternoon  are  usually  occupied  by  dowagers, 
with  now  and  then  a  pretty  girl  on  the  front  seat ;  but 
most  of  the  young  people  are  on  horseback,  in  the  ring 
fenced  in  for  them.  Every  woman  looks  well  in  a  rid- 
ing habit  if  there  is  any  prettiness  possible  to  her ;  but 
the  dowagers,  the  heavy  artillery  of  English  society, 
are  nearly  always  built  as  Hawthorne  painted  them 
with  his  coarsest  brush.  "She  has  an  awful  ponder- 
osity-of  frame.  .  .  .  When  she  walks,  her  advance  is 
elephantine.  When  she  sits  down,  it  is  on  a  gi'eat 
round  space  of  her  Maker's  footstool,  where  she  looks 
as  if  nothing  could  ever  move  her." 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  59 

Light  silks  and  rich  laces,  and  what  would  be  called 
"opera  bonnets"  in  America,  are  tlie  rule  for  this  after- 
noon drive ;  yet  a  thoroughly  well-dressed  woman  in 
the  Park  is  rare  as  the  phosnix  among  birds,  for  we 
sought  her  with  labor  and  pains.  To  American  eyes, 
everything  is  of  last  year's  fashion ;  the  material  is  rich 
and  costly  enough  in  itself,  but  the  effect  is  as  if  not 
one  Englishwoman  in  a  hundred  had  ever  seen  herself 
from  head  to  foot  in  a  mirror. 

Evidently  taste  and  style,  which  mould  a  costume, 
however  varied,  into  an  harmonious  whole,  are  not  to 
be  bought  for  English  money.  In  such  matters,  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence  are  not  legal  tender.  M.  Taine,  in 
his  visit  to  England,  wondered  and  grew  sad  over  this 
lamentable  English  blindness  to  the  fitness  of  things 
in  dress.  One  lady  assured  him  that  all  her  dresses 
came  direct  from  Paris,  and  his  dreadful  comment  was, 
that  she  must  have  selected  them  herself. 

The  women  of  the  middle  and  lower  classes,  whom 
one  meets  in  shops  and  picture  galleries,  are  so  many 
walking  hat-racks  on  which  different  articles  of  dress 
are  loosely  hung  without  any  relation  to  each  other  or 
to  the  season. 

The  fair-haired,  broad-chested  Englishman  is  much 
handsomer  than  the  same  type  appearing  in  women ; 
what  is  large  and  noble  in  a  man's  form  and  face  be- 
comes coarse  and  repulsive  in  a  woman. 

Beautiful  stuffs  beconie  corrupted  in  English  wearing, 
as  fine  names  suffer  a  sort  of  "sea  chance"  in  Ensrlish 
speech ;  this  drive  called  Rotten  Row  was  once  the 
"Route  de  Roi"  (the  king's  way)  ;  Charing  Cross  was 
the  Cross  of  Chere  Reine,  the  last  halting-place  of  the 


60  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

funeral  of  Eleanor  of  Castile  before  her  body  reached 
Westminster  Abbey;  Greenwich  is  Grinnidge;  Har- 
wich, Harritch ;  Bohun,  Boon  ;  Beauchamp,  Beechara  ; 
and,  woi-st  of  all,  Cholmondely,  Chumley.  The  Eng- 
lishman never  hurries  except  in  pronouncing  proper 
names. 

We  christened  the  prettiest  of  the  ladies  moving 
slowly  past  us  by  the  names  that  Thackeray  and  Trol- 
lope  have  made  familiar;  not  one  was  noble  enough 
for  Ethel  Newcome,  or  coldly  beautiful  enough  for 
Lady  Dumbello,  but  it  was  easy  to  identify  Lady  Glen- 
cora  Palliser,  and  Lily  Dale  looking  up  and  down  the 
Park  for  the  faithless  Crosby. 

When  the  plot  was  thickest,  there  was  a  sort  of  mur- 
mur in  the  crowd,  and  policemen  scattered  the  car- 
riages right  and  left  to  make  way  for  "  the  princess." 
The  liveries  of  the  footmen  were  faced  with  scarlet; 
otherwise  there  was  nothing  to  distinguish  the  equipage 
of  royalty.  The  Princess  of  Wales  and  her  sister, 
wife  of  the  Russian  Czarovitch,  occupied  the  carriage 
alone.  The  princess  sat  very  upright,  looking  right 
and  left  with  an  unvarying  smile.  She  has  the  same 
fair  and  sweet  expression  which  is  familiar  in  all  her 
pictures,  but  she  has  faded  terribly  since  she  came  to 
England, 

"  Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir." 

I  fear  it  soon  dawned  upon  her  that  these  two  "  bliss- 
fuls "  were  only  a  poetical  license.  She  looks  like  a 
woman  trained  in  every  hair  and  muscle  to  bear  the 
gaze  of  strangers,  and  "  to  smile,  and  smile,"  whether 
her  heart  were  light  or  heavy. 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  61 

A  woman  may  take  some  comfort  in  bein^  a  princess, 
because  she  can  set  the  fashions,  and  become  the  mother 
of  kings ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  can  seldom  marry 
her  true-love,  or  have  her  own  way  in  the  training  of 
her  children ;  she  can  never  prefer  her  friends  to  honor, 
or  give  a  hearty  snub  to  her  enemies,  for  fear  of  losing 
her  popularity.  After  all,  I  think,  if  women  had  their 
choice  of  position  in  the  world  before  they  entered  it, 
the  princess-ships  would  go  a-begging.  Alexandra  wore 
a  suit  of  light-brown  silk,  embroidered  with  flowers  of 
a  darker  shade,  and  a  small  hat  with  a  long,  light-blue 
feather.  She  was  the  best  dressed  woman  in  the  Park, 
but  not  so  young  or  so  pretty  as  her  sister  Dagmar, 
who  was  then  on  a  visit  to  England  with  her  Russian 
husband.  These  two  lovely  sisters,  who  grew  up  to- 
gether in  the  modest  little  court  of  Denmark,  will 
come  to  high  preferment  on  the  thrones  of  England 
and  Russia.     They  may  be 

"  Perfect  women,  nobly  planned," 

but  it  was  their  prettiness  that  did  it.  Beauty  is  but 
skin  deep,  and  handsome  is  that  handsome  does,  but 
fair  faces  will  sit  on  thrones  while  men  have  the 
choosing. 

It  is  a  pretty  custom  to  relieve  the  gloom  of  Lon- 
don streets  with  a  row  of  bright-colored  tiles  across  the 
windows  filled  with  flowers  in  bloom;  and  flowers 
always  rush  into  blossom  in  English  air,  as  if  they  loved 
to  do  it  and  scorned  to  be  coaxed. 

Another  lively  feature  is  the  continual  emblazonment 
of  the  queen's  arms  over  the  shop  doors  —  "The  lion 


62  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

and  the  unicorn  fighting  for  the  crown."  Shopping  in 
London  lets  patience  have  its  perfect  work.  Each 
article  is  put  away  after  inspection,  and  often  tied  up 
in  a  bundle  with  a  Gordian  knot,  before  another  is 
shown.  The  idea  seems  to  be  that  "  time  was  made  for 
slaves,"  and  free-born  Britons  have  no  need  to  save  it. 
"There's  another  day  coming"  should  be  the  motto  of 
the  English  arms;  "Dieu  et  mon  droit"  is  obsolete. 

One  knows  at  once  that  an  Enejlishman's  house  is 
his  castle,  when  he  sees  that  the  hall  doors  have  no 
handles  on  the  outside.  No  one  can  enter  without 
giving  a  previous  signal ;  London  neighbors  cannot 
"run  in."  When  I  first  laid  my  hand  on  the  spot 
where  the  handle  ought  to  be,  in  any  Christian  door, 
and  found  only  a^  blank,  I  stared  at  it  as  if  it  had 
played  me  a  trick  of  magic;  but  one  soon  finds  out 
that  door-handles  are  not  necessary  to  comfort,  nor 
door-plates  either,  which  are  found  only  on  those 
houses  in  which  some  business  or  profession  is  carried 
on.  It  is  just  as  easy,  too,  to  pull  a  spike  in  the  fence 
as  a  regular  bell-handle,  when  you  have  learned  the 
trick  of  it. 

Perhaps  July  is  the  month  when  London  may  best 
sit  for  its  photograph;  then,  if  ever,  it  wears  the  happy 
expression.  After  months  of  rain  comes  the  "clear 
shining"  that  is  so  delicious  in  moist  climates. 

The  dingy  old  markets  turn  poetical  with  moss-rose 
buds  and  scarlet  mountains  of  strawberries.  The  latter 
are  never  sold  in  boxes,  only  fair  on  top  and  a  snare 
and  delusion  beneath,  but  they  are  scooped  up  by  the 
pound  into  paper  bags,  which  never  blush  for  their  con- 
tents.    One  makes  two  bites  of  a  strawberry  in  Eng- 


A   WOMAN'S   VACATION.  63 

land;  each  one  is  big,  cnsp,  and  self-contained.  It  is 
the  custom  to  serve  them  in  their  own  hulls;  and  when 
eaten,  each  one  is  held  by  its  stem,  and  dipped  sepa- 
rately in  sugar  and  cream,  as  it  deserves.  It  is  a  lei- 
surely, genial  way  of  doing  thera  justice,  only  second 
to  picking  thera  off  a  hill-side.  It  makes  one  glad  that 
fingers  were  made  before  spoons. 

A  favorite  resort  for  Americans  in  London  is  the 
Langham  Hotel,  near  to  Regent  Street  and  the  best 
beloved  shops;  there  you  will  meet  your  best  friend 
and  your  mortal  enemy,  if  anywhere;  but  the  gathering 
of  our  tribes  is  so  great  that  one  must  almost  coin  one's 
self  into  shillings  to  secure  good  attendance.  There  is 
a  legion  of  other  places  in  London  where  Americans 
can  be  at  home  for  much  less  money,  if  it  were  not  for 
that  harrowing  dread,  which  doth  most  easily  beset  us, 
of  being  thought  poor. 

Since  everybody  went  to  Europe  last  summer,  it  did 
not  surprise  me  that  "  the  Professor  "  should  be  there 
too.  He  had  swept  Irelstnd,  and  Scotland,  and  Eng- 
land with  a  new  broom.  "But  in  all  my  going  up  and 
down  the  earth,"  he  said,  "  nothing  surprises  rae  more 
than  the  perpetual  appearance  of  American  ladies  trav- 
elling alone  in  all  places  of  interest.  From  the  heights 
of  old  Londonderry  to  the  vaults  of  St.  Peter's,  they 
crop  up  everywhere,  a  rule  unto  themselves,  self-pos- 
sessed and  regnant.  If  they  have  a  vulnerable  spot, 
it  is  not  in  their  heels,  for  no  rough  road  turns  them 
back."  I  suspect  that  the  Professor  means  to  put  that 
sentence  into  a  lecture  when  he  goes  home,  and  he 
might  have  dwelt  on  it  for  an  hour  if  I  had  not  inter- 
rupted him  to  ask,  like  Meg  Dods,  "  What  for  no  ?  "    I 


64  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

reminded  him  that  there  were  times  in  every  woman's 
life  when  a  long  journey  is  almost  her  salvation ;  if 
she  is  devoured  with  gnawing  cares,  or,  what  is  worse, 
with  pampered  indolence,  there  is  nothing  more  to  be 
desired  for  her  than  the  sudden  snapping  of  old  fetters, 
and  the  stirring  up  of  unused  brain-power. 

"Of  what, did  you  say?"  asked  the  Professor  at  this 
point. 

To  go  to  Europe  with  a  husband  or  father,  who  will 
take  all  the  trouble  and  share  all  the  pleasure,  is  some- 
what like  being  carried  about  in  an  old-fasliioned  sedan 
chair  on  men's  shoulders;  but  to  go  with  a  party  of 
lone  women  is  to  discover  a  new  world.  It  involves 
self-sacrifice,  sudden  smothering  of  old  prejudices,  hard 
labor  and  harder  patience ;  but  so  does  everything  else 
that  is  worth  having. 

The  Professor  smiled  paternally  at  me,  and  said, 
"Yes?"  only  yes,  and  nothing  more.  It  was  the 
*^ Boston  yes"  with  an  interrogation  mark  after  it. 

Trust  me,  O  beloved  reader,  the  best  of  men  and  the 
dearest  of  husbands  are  all  Turks  in  their  hearts! 
They  would  hide  their  wives  behind  veils  and  lattices 
if  they  could,  while  they  make  the  "grand  tour."  It  is 
hard  to  get  on  with  them,  but  think,  for  a  moment,  how 
dreary  it  would  be  to  get  on  without  them.  With  all 
their  faults,  we  love  them  still  1 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  65 


-CHAPTER   V. 

A   WALK   IN   WESTMINSTER. 

**  The  English  are  a  nation  not  slow  and  dull,  but  of  a  quick 
ingeniousness  and  piercing  spirit ;  acute  to  invent,  subtle  and 
sinewy  to  discourse,  not  beneath  the  reach  of  any  point  the 
highest  that  human  capacity  can  soar  to."  —  Milton. 

"John  Bull  has  grown  bulbous,  long-bodied,  short-legged, 
heavy-witted,  material,  and,  in  a  word,  too  intensely  English. 
In  a  few  more  centuries  he  will  be  the  earthliest  creature  that 
ever  the  earth  saw."  —  Hawthorne. 

THE  guide-book  quotes  the  saying  of  an  old  trav- 
eller (perhaps  the  Wandeiing  Jew),  that  if  he 
had  but  one  day  in  London,  he  would  ride  up  and  down 
its  famous  streets  and  parks,  and  stop  once  —  at  West- 
minster Abbey.  If  I  had  ten  days,  which  is  the  very 
least  that  London  should  receive  from  the  most  merci- 
less tourist,  I  would  still  go  to  the  abbey,  and  the 
Houses  of  Parliament,  on  the  first  day,  lest  the  world 
might  come  to  an  end  before  I  could  bless  my  eyes 
with  them. 

The  abbey  is  the  only  place  where  tombs  and  me- 
morial tablets  are  cheei-ful  company.  The  constant 
inscription  of  famous  and  familiar  names  is  like  the 
sudden  meeting  of  friends  long  looked  for.    It  is  a  live- 


66  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

]y  imagination,  indeed,  which  could  build  unto  itself  a 
finer  Westminster  Abbey  than  the  reality,  and  the  first 
feeling,  when  one  stands  on  its  worn  floor,  is  a  sort  of 
grateful  surprise,  like  that  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba, 
when  she  came  to  see  Solomon,  and,  with  a  sigh  of 
pleasure,  confessed  that  "  the  half  had  not  been  told 
her."  The  windows  of  the  abbey  are  its  crown  of 
glory ;  they  make  good  cheer  in  a  solemn  place.  They 
are  said  to  do  honor  to  certain  kings  and  jjatriarchs, 
part  Hebrew  and  part  English;  but  to  my  mind  they 
are  a  direct  translation,  into  brilliant  color,  of  certain 
verses  in  the  Prayer  Book,  —  "  the  glorious  company 
of  the  Apostles — the  goodly  fellowship  of  the  Proph- 
ets —  and  the  noble  army  of  Martyrs,"  who  are  sup- 
posed to  praise  God  continually,  and  to  pay  some 
attention  to  the  strivings  of  mortals  towards  a  holier 
life. 

Some  of  the  epitaphs  are  peculiarly  unfit  for  sacred 
walls,  like  much  of  the  wicked  dust  buried  beneath 
them.  If  the  devotional  feeling  survives  such  a  dog- 
gerel couplet  as  that  on  the  tomb  of  Gay,  — 

\ 
"Life  is  a  jest,  and  all  things  show  it. 

Once  I  thought  so,  now  I  know  it,"  — 

it  is  gone  long  before  the  daily  service  is  finished.  The 
careless,  rattling  way  in  which  this  is  performed,  is  an 
early  and  late  reproach  to  the  dean  and  chapter.  In 
the  mouth  of  the  man  who  read  the  Apostles'  Greed, 
it  might  as  well  have  been  the  children's  rhyme, — 

**  Peter  Piper  picked  a  peck  of  pickled  peppers, 
A  peck  of  pickled  peppers  Peter  Piper  picked,"  — 


.-^^ 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  67 

for  all  that  the  closest  attention  could  make  of  it  with- 
out the  Prayer  Book. 

It  is  a  shamefaced  task  to  follow  after  Addison,  and 
Lamb,  and  Washington  Irving,  in  talking  about  the 
abbey,  but  that  every  one  may  find  his  own  crumbs 
falling  from  this  table  of  the  past.  The  reader  of 
Elia  recognizes  easily  the  tomb  of  his  dear  Duchess 
of  Newcastle,  lying  on  higher  pillows  than  those  of 
her  husband.  She  came  of  a  "good  family,"  because 
"all  her  sisters  were  virtuous  and  her  brothers  valiant." 
It  would  go  hard  with  some  families  if  this  test  were 
applied  to  their  goodness,  and  that  may  be  the  reason 
why  every  one  who  reads  them,  thinks  them  odd  and 
quaint,  when  nothing  could  be  more  simple  and  true. 
She  wrote  manv  books,  but  she  had  no  issue.  It  is 
odd  to  notice  how  invariably,  in  these  epitaphs,  those 
women  are  most  glorified  who  had  the  largest  families. 
Napoleon  crystallized  the  opinion  of  forty  centuries, 
when  he  told  Madame  de  Stael  that  "she  was  the 
greatest  woman,  who  had  the  most  sons."  In  York 
Minster,  on  a  memorial  tablet,  one  reads  that  a  certain 
Jane  Hodson,  wife  of  the  chancellor  of  the  cathedral, 
gave  birth  to  twenty-four  children,  and  died  in  her 
thirty-eighth  year.  "One, that  was  a  woman,  sir;  but, 
rest  her  soul,  she's  dead ! "  Of  course  tombstones  and 
figurf  s  cannot  lie,  and  it  is  devoutly  to  be  hoped  that 
the  resurrection  will  not  come  for  a  thousand  years  at 
least,  that  Jane  Hodson  may  have  a  long  rest.  Per- 
haps they  were  all  daughters  —  think  of  twenty-four 
daughters  in  one  house!  —  think  of  the  eleven  thou- 
sand virgins  of  Cologne!  and  wonder  not  that  Jane 
Hodson  died  before  she  was  forty  I 


68  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

One  thinks  of  the  old  fable  of  the  fox  taunting  the 
lioness  with  bringing  forth  only  one  whelp  at  a  time, 
and  the  lioness  proudly  replies,  "One,  but  a  lion!^''  It 
seems  to  have  been  reserved  for  the  nineteenth  century 
to  discover  the  tremendous  fact,  that  in  children,  as  in 
precious  stones,  quality  rather  than  quantity  is  to  be 
desired. 

An  army  of  good  women  "  sleep  well,  after  life's  fit* 
ful  fever,"  in  the  abbey.  Of  one,  it  is  said  that  her 
death  made  not  only  her  husband,  but  '^virtue,  worth, 
and  sweetness,  widowers."  I  have  no  doubt  they  all 
married  again  right  speedily. 

Of  a  certain  Duchess  of  Buckingham,  it  is  said  "the 
duke  and  she  lived  lovingly  and  decently  together,  she 
patiently  bearing  the  faults  she  could  not  remedy."  It 
was  a  sweet  old  fashion  of  women  to  endure  and  make 
no  sign  —  I  fear  it  will  have  gone  out  altogether  when 
they  get  their  rights. 

Another  was,  "Blest  with  two  babes,  the  thirde 
brought  her  to  this."  "TViis"  is  .a  fearfully  and  won- 
derfully carved  monument,  Which  "  Cecile,  her  hus- 
bande,"  built  for  her,  "to  prove  his  love  did  after  death 
abide."  He  chose  a  material  which,  abides  much  longer 
than  love. 

One  bereaved  husband  inscribed  on  his  wife's  tomb, 
"The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away  — 
blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord."  He  was  thankful 
for  both  boons,  but  he  had  the  grace  to  put  this  equiv- 
ocal compliment  into  Hebrew,  which  she  probably 
could  not  understand. 

The  name  of  Lady  Russell,  maid  of  honor  to  Eliza- 
beth, is  sounded  in  our  ears  to  this  day  by  the  vergers, 


A    WOMAN'S   VACATION',  69 

who  take  us  through  the  chapels,  because  she  died  of 
the  prick  of  a  needle.  It  is  sometimes  as  good  a 
ticket,  for  one's  passage  down  to  posterity,  to  die  oddly ^ 
as  to  die  heroically,  and  it  is  far  less  trouble. 

These  black-robed  vergers,  like  all  other  foreign 
guides  to  old  churches,  seem  to  have  pickled  them- 
selves for  years  in  poor  brandy,  perhaps  as  a  remedy 
against  mould  and  damp.  A  blind  person  could  easily 
follow  them  by  the  sense  of  smell. 

Every  one  pays  tribute  of  a  smile  to  a  certain  empty 
place  made  ready  for  a  woman,  who  scorned  to  occupy 
it.  A  worshipful  earl  of  James  I.'s  time  built  the  usual 
stone  table,  had  his  own  effigy  placed  in  the  middle, 
and  that  of  his  first  wife  on  liis  right  side,  as  was  her 
due,  leaving  an  equal  space  on  his  left  for  his  second 
love;  but  this  lady  would  have  the  place  of  honor  or 
none,  and  had  herself  buried  elsewhere. 

The  statue  of  Mrs.  Siddons  bears  a  strono:  resem- 
blance  to  the  present  reader  and  actress,  Mrs.  Scott- 
Siddons.  She  stood  on  a  tragic  pedestal  all  her  life, 
as  she  does  now  in  the  abbey,  and  she  could  never 
step  down  from  it  into  common  life.  Sydney  Smith 
said  she  always  stabbed  the  potatoes,  and  she  once 
quelled  a  riotous  crowd  by  simply  standing  up  in  her 
carriage  and  saying,  ^'-I am  Sarah  Siddons P 

It  is  almost  an  invariable  custom  on  English  tombs 
to  make  the  name  of  the  survivors,  who  erected  them, 
quite  as  conspicuous  as  that  of  the  occupant,  thus  in- 
geniously blowing  the  trumpet  of  the  living  and  of  the 
dead  at  the  same  time. 

Henry  VII.'s  chapel  is  the  apex  of  the  abbey's 
perfection,    although   some   unfortunate    was    learned 


70  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

enough  t 
buildinsr. 


enough  to  see  that  it  did  not  match  the  rest  of  the 


"  Here's  an  acre,  sown,  indeed, 
With  the  richest,  royalest  seed." 

For  many  centuries  no  one  outside  of  royal  blood 
could  be  buried  there,  but  the  plebeians  crept  in  at 
last,  as  they  do  into  every  kingly  privilege.  A  king 
has  little  remaining  to  him  now  that  he  can  really  call 
his  own  but  a  title  and  a  grave. 

The  stone  carving  of  this  chapel  roof  is  delicate  as 
the  ivory  carving  of  a  chessman,  or,  better  still,  the 
lavish  leafoge  and  flowering  of  a  rose  bush  in  June. 
In  one  aisle  is  buried  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  and  in 
the  other  her  successful  enemy,  Queen  Elizabeth.  The 
width  of  the  chapel  divides  them  in  death,  as  the  great 
gulf  between  beauty  and  intellect  divided  them  in  life 
—  the  woman  who  was  beautiful  and  knew  it,  and  the 
woman  who  was  not  beautiful,  but  forced  all  the  world 
to  call  her  so.  The  chronicle  says  that  Queen  Bess 
questioned  Melville  sharply  and  closely  whether  Mary 
Stuart  w^ere  taller  than  herself,  and  extorting' an  affir- 
mative answer,  she  replied,  "Then  your  queen  is  too 
tall,  for  I  am  just  the  proper  height." 

In  this  chapel  is  a  round-cheeked  baby  lying  in  a 
stone  cradle,  and  well  covered  up  from  the  church 
damp. 

The  seats  where  the  monks  listened  to  the  endless 
services  of  the  old  religion  were  contrived,  in  case  they 
grew  drowsy  and  lost  themselves,  to  give  way  beneath 
them,  which  must  have  been  a  lively  warning  to  their 
fellow-sufferers.     They  managed  these  things  better  in 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION  71 

Catholic  times  than  in  these  latter  days.  Near  by  is  a 
Bplendid  tomb,  built  by  the  first  Duke  of  Buckingham 
and  his  wife,  which  quite  fills  up  the  family  burial-room, 
so  that  any  other  dead  Buckinghams  must  be  tucked 
into  corners. 

The  epitaph  ought  to  have  been,  "After  us,  the 
Deluge." 

To  English  great  men,  Westminster  Abbey  is  a  sort 
of  posthumous  reward  of  merit.  I  never  heard  of  but 
one  who  objected  to  sleep  his  last  sleep  within  its 
walls.  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  a  famous  painter  of  famous 
faces,  did  not  yearn  for  the  abbey,  "  because  they  do 
bury  fools  there,"  but  later  years  proved  to  him  that 
they  do  bury  fools  everywhere. 

The  last  great  man  buried  there  was  Dickens,  and 
by  his  own  request  he  has  no  monument.  His  admir- 
ers must  hope  that  the  three-volumed  epitaph,  which 
Mr.  Foster  is  now  writing  about  him,  has  the  lying 
quality  of  most  epitaphs.  As  was  said  of  another 
biographer,  it  would  make  death  more  terrible  to  think 
of  having  one's  life  written  by  such  a  friend.  Dick- 
ens's ghost  should  haunt  his  pillow  and  quote  in  his 
ear,  "I  can  take  care  of  my  enemies,  but  Heaven  pre- 
serve me  from  my  friends!"  The  old  effigies  lie  flat 
on  their  backs,  or  lean  comfortably  on  one  elbow,  but 
in  the  more  modern  monuments,  the  statues  are  too 
often  balanced  on  one  leg,  or  stand  forever  in  some 
pugnacious  attitude,  which  tires  and  strains  the  eye 
to  look  at.  When  marble  and  repose  are  divorced, 
it  wrongs  the  fitness  of  things;  and  when  sculptors 
learn  that  it  is  unnatural  and  repulsive  to  be  always 
straining  one's  muscles  in  marble,  as  well  as  in  the 


72  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

flesh,  there  will  be  a  new  and  glad  sunrising  in  their 
art. 

The  Chapter  House  of  the  monks,  which  long  held 
the  House  of  Commons,  is  now  only  the  depository  of 
curious  writings,  such  as  the  certificate  of  the  delivery 
of  the  heart  of  Henry  HI.  to  a  certain  abbess,  to  whom 
he  had  promised  it.  I  cannot  imagine  what  a  woman 
should  want  with  a  man's  heart  after  he  was  dead. 
The  Doomsday  Book  is  there  too,  which,  eight  hundred 
years  ago,  made  the  same  heart-burning  that  an  income 
tax  does  now.  The  roof  rises  from  a  central  pillar  like 
the  graceful  branches  of  a  palm-tree,  but  its  sublime 
effect  is  lessened  on  looking  into  a  glass  case  contain- 
ing skeletons  of  rats  and  old  rags,  that  were  found  in 
very  ancient  parts  of  the  cloister,  and  hence  thought 
worthy  of  preservation. 

**  Imperious  Caesar,  dead  and  turned  to  clay, 
Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away." 

There  would  be  some  sense  in  keeping  Caesar's  clay 
in  a  glass  case,  if  one  could  identify  the  right  hole,  but 
one  must  be  born  and  bred  in  England,  to  get  any 
satisfaction  out  of  sacredly  preserving  the  skeleton  of 
the  rat  that  made  the  hole. 

We  found  our  way  with  some  trouble  to  the  Jeru- 
salem Chamber,  which  was  full  of  the  perfume  of  a 
new  cedar  wainscoting.  Whenever  any  great  thing  is 
done  in  England,  it  is  sure  to  have  a  root  or  two 
springing  out  of  this  chamber.  The  elect  doctors  meet 
there  every  fortnight  to  compare  notes  of  a  new  trans- 
lation of  the  Bible.  When  they  have  finished  it,  I 
fear  some  people  will  have  to  be  converted  over  again, 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  7^ 

the  old  texts  will  wear  such  different  faces.  Henry 
IV.  died  there.  It  had  been  prophesied  to  him  that  he 
should  die  in  Jerusalem,  and  he  had  never  ventured  to 
go  to  the  Holy  Land. 

King  Henry.  —  **  Does  any  name  particular  belong 

Unto  the  lodging  where  I  first  did  swoon?" 
Warwick.  —  "  'Tis  called  Jerusalem,  my  noble  lord." 

I  asked  the  porter  of  the  abbey  why  this  room  was 
called  Jerusalem,  and  he  said,  "Because  that  was  the 
name  of  it."  I  have  sought  far  and  near  for  a  better 
reason,  but  have  not  found  one.  Near  it  is  the  dining- 
room  of  the  queen's  scholars  at  Westminster  School, 
savory  with  the  ghosts  of  departed  dinners.  The 
tables,  much  hacked  with  school-boy  knives,  are  made 
of  oak  from  the  Spanish  Armada. 

I  had  reached  the  Jerusalem  Chamber  by  a  long  de- 
tour, through  cloisters  and  ancient  passages,  fragrant 
of  cedar,  but  I  left  it  by  a  little  door  opening  directly 
into  the  abbey  itself.  The  longest  way  round  was,  in 
this  case,  the  shortest  way  home. 

When  Heinrich  Heine  went  throug^h  this  home  of 
dead  Englishmen,  he  gave  a  shilling  to  the  verger,  with 
the  remark,  that  he  would  have  given  him  more  if  the 
collection  had  been  complete. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  abbey  is  the  old  parish  church 
of  Westminster,  where  Cromwell  was  married,  but  I 
don't  know  that  any  special  interest  attaches  to  the 
fact.  He  mis^ht  as  well  have  been  a  bachelor  all  his 
days,  since  his  family  proved  too  weak  to  hold  the 
kingdom  that  he  bequeathed  to  them. 

Just  across  the  square,  where  one  may,  perhaps,  meet 


74  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

a  black  gowned  lawyer  witK  his  gray  wig  put  on  awry, 
are  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  If  the  dress  of  English 
lawyers  was  intended  to  inspire  respect,  it  is  effectually 
banished  by  their  careless  way  of  wearing  it. 

There  are  few  more  ludicrous  sights  than  a  red  head 
in  a  gray  wig  that  is  too  small  for  it. 

The  noblest  entrance  to  the  Houses  of  Parliament  is 
by  the  great  hall,  in  which  Charles  I.  and  Warren 
Hastings  came  to  grief,  and  where,  in  the  small  court- 
rooms leading  out  of  it,  smaller  sinners  are  daily  get- 
ting their  deserts. 

At  this  time  the  Tichborne  trial  drew  a  crowd  every 
day  to  see  the  "  claimant "  come  out  of  court.  He  is 
thie  very  picture  of  a  butcher.  He  could  not  look 
more  like  one,  if  he  had  been  pre-ordained  to  that 
trade  from  the  beginning  of  the  world.  The  only 
thing  going  on  in  the  hall  during  our  visit  was  the 
manual  exercise  of  a  troop  of  bare-legged  Highland- 
ers. There  were  hundreds  of  men  in  it,  but  such  was 
the  immensity  of  the  hall  that  they  were  in  nobody's 
way.  The  countless  rooms  and  galleries  of  this  vast 
talking-place  of  the  nation  are  almost  too  gay  and 
modern  for  English  taste.  It  must  be  a  satisfaction  to 
them  to  see  that  the  stone,  of  which  it  is  built,  is 
already  beginning  to  crumble,  as  if  ashamed  of  its 
newness. 

The  way  to  the  "Ladies'  Gallery"  in  the  House  of 
Commons  is  a  straight  and  narrow  path,  and  i^v^  there 
be  that  travel  it.  By  means  of  a  powerful  letter  of  in- 
troduction, which  did  set  us  forth  to  be  very  remark- 
able women  indeed,  we  softened  the  heart  of  Mr. 
Moran,  the  hard-working  secretary  of  the  American 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION'  75 

legation,  who,  for  fifteen  years,  has  had  the  training 
of  our  ministers  to  their  court  duties,  and  were  ad- 
mitted to  the  gallery  between  three  and  four  in  the 
afternoon.  The  session  often  lasts  all  night,  but  there 
is  a  tacit  law,  that  no  vexed  questions  shall  be  brouglit 
on  the  floor  after  midnight.  The  Ladies'  Gallery  is 
tucked  under  the  very  ceiling  of  the  room,  and  closed 
in  with  brass  lattice-work,  like  that  from  which  Turk- 
ish beauties  look  down  on  their  lords'  pastimes  without 
being  seen.  It  is  evident  enough  that  women  were  of 
very  small  account  in  English  politics  when  Parliament 
was  first  established,  while  large,*  open  galleries  sur- 
round the  hall  for  male  visitors.  The  members  of  the 
House  wear  their  hats,  except  when  speaking,  which 
may  be  a  relic  of  the  time  when  government  work 
was  done  out  of  doors,  or  it  may  be  a  delicate  English 
way  of  intimating  that  the  Commons  are  lords  of  crea- 
tion—  whatever  good  reason  they  had  at  first,  they 
evidently  wear  their  hats  now  because  the  room  is  so 
crowded  there  is  no  other  place  to  keep  them. 

The  two  generals  of  government  and  opposition, 
Mr.  Gladstone  and  Disraeli,  remain  uncovered  all  the 
time.  No  one  in  the  galleries  may  wear  his  hat,  not 
even  the  Prince  ef  Wales  himself. 

Some  "sweet  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft"  for  the 
guidance  of  forlorn  women  must  have  led  us  to  choose 
that  day  of  all  others. 

When  we  first  looked  down  through  the  lattice,  a 
tall  man,  in  a  coat  of  miraculous  fit,  was  speaking  in 
a  careful  monotone,  with  every  sentence  rounded  like  a 
ball.  He  seemed  at  a  loss  for  an  occupation  for  his 
hands,  and  maltreated  his  pockets  a  good  deal  at  first; 


76  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

but  this  restlessness  soon  passed  away,  while  the  quiet 
of  the  room  was  intense.  An  upward  turn  of  his  head 
showed  the  features  of  Disraeli.  It  was  a  long-ex- 
pected  speech  on  the  abolishing  of  intermediate  courts 
of  judicature  in  Scotland  and  Ireland.  He  paid  many- 
studied  compliments  to  the  government,  and  the  only 
restless  listener  was  Mr.  Gladstone  (divided  from  him 
by  the  width  of  a  table),  who  fidgeted  about  his  seat, 
made  notes  on  a  bit  of  paper,  and  sometimes  whispered 
a  word  in  the  ear  of  his  neighbor.  Mr.  Gladstone 
replied  to  him,  point  by  point,  with  a  swift,  clear  utter- 
ance, that  was  music  to  ears  strained  by  listening  to 
Mr.  Disraeli's  thick  voice  and  measured  j^eriods.  He 
called  his  opponent's  argument  "  an  inverted  pyramid 
without  any  reason,  he  might  say,  with  not  a  rag  of 
reason  in  it."  He  answered  a  slisjht  slur  on  Scottish 
brains  by  saying  that  he  had  always  looked  on  Scot- 
land as  "an  exporting  country,  having  too  many  brains 
through  all  time  for  her  own  market,"  which  called  forth 
great  applause  from  certain  sandy-haired  and  sharp- 
featured  members,  whom  I  took  to  be  Scotchmen. 

When  these  two  lions  had  done  roaring,  and  smaller 
I  ones  began  to  free  their  minds,  the  decorous  stillness 
changed  to  perfect  confusion ;  the  members  began  to 
write  letters  and  talk  to  their  neighbors,  while  not  a 
few  composed  themselves  to  sleep.  Mr.  Disraeli,  as  he 
listened,  did  so  discharge  his  face  of  every  particle  of 
expression,  that  he  looked  as  if  he  heard  only  the  lull- 
ing sound  of  rain  on  the  roof. 

Times  are  grown  into  joint  for  him  since,  as  a  young 
man  making  his  maiden  speech,  he  was  forced  by 
coughs  and  hisses  to  sit  down.     He  yielded  then,  say- 


A   WOMAN* S  VACATION'.  77 

ing  calmly,  "  I  will  sit  down  now,  but  the  time  will 
come  when  you  shall  hear  me."  Mr.  Disraeli  can  com- 
pel English  attention,  which,  in  itself,  is  a  labor  of 
Hercules,  and  he  can  write  "Lothair,"  but  he  can  lever 
make  himself  an  Englishman.  When  he  was  taunted 
with  his  Jewish  descent,  he  retorted  instantly,  "When 
your  ancestors  were  squalid  savages  digging  in  the 
earth  for  roots,  mine  were  princes  in  the  Temple."  An 
Englishman,  in  like  case,  would  have  put  up  his  eye- 
glass and  stolidly  glared  down  his  enemy  without  a 
word.  He  is  said  to  have  been  deeply  attached  to  that 
ancient  wife,  who  loved  him  like  a  mother,  and  this 
was  his  first  speech  since  her  death. 

The  crowded  House  of  Commons  is  perhaps  as  good 
a  place  as  any  to  look  for  the  type  of  English  gentle- 
men. There  is  a  certain  family  resemblance  between 
them,  as  there  would  be  in  the  most  heterogeneous 
gathering  of  tribes  after  they  have  eaten  and  drunken 
and  slept  together  long  enough,  with  the  one  exception 
of  Mr.  Disraeli.  I  think  no  twin  is  possible  for  him. 
"Nature  made  him,  and  then  broke  the  mould." 

Is  it  not  Holmes  who  says  that  one  test  of  a  gentle- 
man is  not  to  say  "haow"and  not  to  eat  with  the 
knife?  In  bank,  and  street,  and  shop,  in  England,  T 
constantly  heard  the  flat  sound  given  to  words  having 
ou  in  them.  Even  in  the  House  of  Commons  some 
one  said  "paound"  and  "haouse."  Since  "haow"  has 
reappeared  in  this  well  of  English  undefiled,  we  may 
perhaps  soon  teach  our  children  to  eat  with  their 
knives.  Gail  Hamilton  lays  down  the  law  that  the 
talisman  of  gentlemanhood  lies  in  the  finger-nails.  An 
old  English  court  decided  that  he  was  a  gentleman 


78  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

who  kept  a  gig.  But  James  Hannay  settled  it  forever 
for  Englishmen,  ''No  one  could  be  a  gentleman  unless 
his  ancestors  wore  chain-armor  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury."   It  behooves  Americans  to  look  for  other  tests. 

A  swell  young  Englishman  with  a  cousin  in  the 
baronetage,  being  suddenly  challenged  by  one  of  our 
party  to  stand  and  deliver  his  definition  of  a  gentle- 
man, replied  that  "  he  was  one  whose  father  and  grand- 
fiither  had  never  worked  for  a  living;"  but  he  waa 
routed  horse  and  foot,  with  great  slaughter,  by  the  re- 
joinder, that  there  were  plenty  of  people  in  America 
whose  father  and  grandfather  had  never  worked  for  a 
living.  In  fact,  the  habit  ran  in  the  family,  but  they 
were  usually  maintained  in  the  poorhouses  of  their  re- 
Bpective  parishes. 

The  House  of  Lords  is  an  intensely  stupid  place  to 
a  stranger.  The  bishops  are  so  smothered  in  their 
wigs  and  gowns,  that  they  hem  and  ha,  and  have  a  very 
apoplectic  time  of  it,  getting  oat  what  they  want  to 
say.  In  fact,  it  seems  to  be  a  fixed  belief  among  Eng- 
lish people  that  rapid  talkers  must  of  neces5>ity  be 
rather  giddy-headed,  and  that  what  is  dug  out  of  the 
mind  with  most  difficulty  must  be  of  most  value.  Mr. 
Gladstone,  however,  talks  like  a  running  brook  with 
sparkling  ripples  of  wit.  In  the  ante-room  of  the  House 
of  Lords  one  reads  the  names  under  the  hat  pegs,  D. 
Somerset,  E.  Clanricarde,  L.  Powis,  as  if  it  were  David, 
£dward  and  Luke,  instead  of  Duke,  Earl  and  Lord. 

We  went  gayly  home  in  a  hansom  after  our  first  dip 
in  EInglish  politics,  scorning  to  notice  the  pain  in  our 
necks  firom  straining  them  up  to  that  brass  lattice  for 
two   mortal   hours.     We  were   full   of  pity  for   the 


A   WOMAN* S  VACATION,  79 

•braTC  hidj^  oar  coaDtrywaman,  who  bearded  Mr, 
Moran  in  lus  den  that  same  afternoon,  vrith  noduog 
bat  her  open  coantenanee  to  reoomniend  her,  and  de- 
manded skc  tidtets  for  the  Ladies*  Gallery.  She  waa 
sent  airajr  empty-handed  and  sonowfol;  but  we  are 
nradi  nuatakoi  hi  oar  eoaotiTWoman,  if  Mr.  Moran 
Imm  aeoi  the  hat  of  hen 


80  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LONDON   IN   WATER-COLORS. 

"  On  the  Thames,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  made  several  reflec- 
tions on  the  greatness  of  the  British  nation,  —  as  that  one  Eng- 
lishman could  beat  three  Frenchmen ;  that  the  Thames  was  the 
noblest  river  in  Europe ;  that  London  Bridge  was  a  greater  piece 
of  work  than  any  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world,  —  with 
many  other  honest  prejudices  which  naturally  cleave  to  the  heart 
of  a  true  Englishman."  —  Addison. 

HTTP  to  this  time,  I  have  been  only  skirting  about 
\J  London,  in  what  were  once  villages,  at  some  dis- 
tance from  it ;  but  the  neighboring  monster  grew  and 
grew  till  it  swallowed  them  all  up,  and  called  them  by 
its  own  name.  King  James  I.,  in  his  wisdom,  thought 
he  could  keep  people  in  the  country  by  imposing  a  fine 
on  those  who  moved  to  London ;  but  any  woman  could 
have  told  him  that  he  had  only  added  one  more  fasci- 
nation to  city  living.  A  man  will  die  for  a  forbidden 
thing,  and  more  martyrs  have  gone  to  the  stake  for 
the  sake  of  their  own  way  than  for  religion. 

The  real  London  is  inside  of  Temple  Bar  —  a  dark, 
huge,  old  archway,  which  once  served  to  hold  up  the 
heads  of  traitois,  but  has  no  use  now  except  to  ob- 
struct the  street.     So  tenacious  was  the  old  city  of  its 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  81 

rights,  that  the  king  in  his  chariot  could  not  pass  this 
Bar  without  pausing  to  receive  permission  from  the 
mayor. 

In  "the  city,"  used  now  only  by  business  and  pov- 
erty, all  the  great  English  joys  and  sorrows  have  come 
to  pass.  A  tall  monument  tells  how  it  was  burned  up 
by  the  "great  fire,"  so  rare  a  thing  then  that  they 
looked  for  no  minor  causes,  but  called  it  a  "judgment 
of  God "  on  their  sins ;  the  earthquake  cracked  their 
china  vases,  and  sent  all  the  chief  sinners  out  of  town; 
and  in  1666  "the  plague"  left  only  the  tenth  person 
alive.  "The  people  die  so,"  says  Pepys,  "that  now  it 
seems  they  are  fain  to  carry  the  dead  to  be  buried  by 
daylight,  the  night  not  sufficing  to  do  it  in." 

The  dome  of  St.  Paul's  draws  all  feet  towards  it;  it 
is  venerable  enough  on  the  outside,  but  within,  it  is  as 
cheap  and  modern  as  whitewash,  and  stucco,  and  gild- 
ins:  can  make  it.  Dickens  insisted  that  it  was  nobler 
than  St.  Peter's  at  Rome,  but  he  was  the  most  bigoted 
of  Englishmen,  and  a  truth  that  has  been  sifted  through 
English  prejudice  must  be  of  very  tough  fibre  if  there 
is  anything  left  of  it. 

The  strenojth  of  St.  Paul's  is  not  wasted  on  carvincj 
or  stained  glass;  the  lower  part  is  too  light  and  the 
dome  too  dark  —  only  the  distances  are  magnificent. 
The  eflfect  is  not  of  being  in  a  church  at  all,  but  of 
being  out  of  doers  in  a  cloudy  day  with  no  trees  in 
sight.  Its  real  beauty  is  best  seen  from  the  whispering 
gallery  running  round  the  dome,  whence  the  overpower- 
ing depth  and  height  marry  each  other,  and  silence  all 
carping  criticism :  one's  love  of  beauty  is  stilled  in 
one's  respect  for  simple  bigness.  Nelson  and  Welling- 
6 


82  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

ton  are  buried  in  state  in  the  cellar,  with  candles  burn- 
ing before  them  as  if  they  were  altars ;  plenty  of  other 
quiet  folks  keep  them  company,  and  among  them  Sir 
Christopher  Wren,  who  desired  no  other  monument 
than  St.  Paul's  itself,  which  he  designed  and  built ;  and 
the  unlucky  Dr.  Donne,  who  made  an  epigram  on  his 
marriage,  with  more  truth  than  poetry  in  it,  — 

**  John  Donne  —  Anne  Donne  —  undone,"  — 

and  had  to  depend  on  the  charity  of  friends  all  his  life 
for  house-room  in  which  to  bring  up  his  twelve  children 
" Children,"  says  Loid  Bacon,  " raitigjite  the  remem- 
brance of  death."  They  must  have  made  poor  Dr. 
Donne  actually  in  love  with  it.  His  jioem  of  "  The 
Shipwreck  "  makes  one's  flesh  creep. 

Out  of  a  white  army  of  statues  in  the  body  of  the 
church,  that  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  strikes  one  with 
pity ;  a  man  so  wedded  to  a  full-bottomed  wig,  and 
voluminous  garments,  that  he  seemed  to  have  been 
born  in  them,  is  sculptured  to  stand  half  naked,  through 
all  time,  in  St.  Paul's.  It  is  worse  than  his  voluntary 
penance  of  standing  an  hour  in  the  market-place  of 
Uttoxeter,  where  he  was  born,  for  some  disobedience 
to  his  parents  committed  fifty  years  before. 

It  was  a  rather  touching  and  romantic  thing  to  do, 
and  to  think  of  afterwards;  but  it  reads  like  pure  silli- 
ness in  a  man,  who  spoke  "Johnsonese,"  and  drank 
seventeen  cups  of  tea  at  a  sitting.  Sculptors  have  a 
terrible  passion  for  nudity;  they  would  have  forbidden 
poor  Eve  her  fig-leaves;  but  to  strip  a  man  who  wrote 
a  dictionary   (the  "Hippopotamus   of  Literature,"  as 


A   WOMAN'S   VACATION.  83 

Mrs.  Jameson  called  him)  of  his  clothes,  is  going  too 
far  for  decency. 

Passing  by  the  Mansion  House  where  the  lord 
mayor  exists,  chiefly  to  give  good  dinners,  we  come, 
after  many  windings  among  crooked  streets,  Jews,  and 
evil  odors,  to  the  Tower^  whose  stones  have  been  wet 
with  so  much  innocent  blood,  for  little  or  no  reason  but 
the  will  of  the  king.  We  have  certainly  improved  on 
those  old  days,  in  that  no  man  can  now  behead  another 
without  an  uncommonly  good  reason  for  it.  If  kings 
are  going  out  of  fashion,  there  are  still  some  compen- 
sations. All  the  lachrymals  in  the  British  Museum 
would  not  hold  the  tears  that  have  been  shed  within 
these  thick  walls.  The  "  Queen's  Beef-eaters  "  lie  in 
wait,  within  the  gates,  in  a  fantastic  uniform  of  many 
colors,  to  take  a  shilling,  and  its  owner,  up  stairs  and 
down  stairs,  and  in  the  ladies'  chamber,  where  Lady 
Jane  Grey  wrote  her  name  and  her  resignation  on  the 
wall,  with  those  of  other  unhappy  prisoners.  We 
looked  into  the  little  room  built  in  the  wall,  where  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  slept,  when  he  .whiled  away  his  long 
imprisonment  with  writing  a  History  of  the  World. 
I  have  seen  worse  rooms  at  summer  watering-places, 
but  nowhere  else.  In  the  outer  room  is  an  effigy  of 
gaunt  Queen  Bess  on  horseback,  in  a  velvet  gown  cov- 
ered with  eyes  and  ears ;  if  it  was  there  in  Raleigh's 
time,  he  must  have  smiled  bitterly  to  himself  as  he 
remembered  the  day  when  he  laid  his  cloak  in  the  mud 
that  the  maiden  queen  might  not  soil  her  shoe. 

Great  store  of  arms  are  arransred  in  the  form  of  lilies 
and  passion-flowers,  and  heavy  suits  of  mail  show  how 
much  stronger  men  and  horses  must  have  been  in  the 


84  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

old  days,  even  to  have  carried  them  to  the  edge  of 
battle. 

The  sweetest  old  romance  about  the  Tower  is  the 
story  of  James  I.,  of  Scotland,  the  poet-prince,  who 
was  kept  there,  as  a  hostage  for  his  father's  good  faith, 
by  the  English  king.  He  fell  in  love  with  Joanna 
Beaufort,  a  noble  maiden  whom  he  used  to  see  from 
his  window  walking  in  her  garden.  His  love  blossomed 
into  a  poem  that  would  read  well  if  one  had  never 
heard  that  a  king  wrote  it.  When  he  came  unto  his 
own,  he  married  the  lady  of  his  window-love.  To  be 
a  king  and  a  happy  husband  was  too  much  joy  for  one 
man,  and  he  was  soon  assassinated  in  his  own  palace, 
in  presence  of  his  wife  and  Lady  Catharine  Douglass, 
who  kept  out  the  conspirators  by  bolting  the  door 
with  her  arm,  and  holding  it  there  until  they  broke 
the  bone.  His  wife's  arm  would  have  been  a  little 
more  poetical  instead  of  one  of  the  Douglasses,  "tender 
and  true"  though  they  were.  Some  one  has  painted 
a  tender  and  true  picture  of  the  scene  for  one  of  the 
galleries  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament. 

The  crown  jewels  and  gold  dishes  kept  in  the  Tower 
are  so  very  splendid,  that  they  are  almost  vulgar;  an 
old  woman  hurries  one  in  and  out  of  the  room  as  if 
she  wanted  to  cry,  "  Thieves,  thieves ! "  instead  of  the 
the  names  of  the  treasure. 

The  "Kohinoor  "  is  about  as  brilliant  as  a  clean  glass 
salt-cellar.  I  had  longed  to  look  in  the  face  of  this 
queen  of  diamonds,  and  was  consoled  in  my  disappoint- 
ment with  the  intimation  that  I  had  only  seen  a  fac- 
simile, the  real  stone  being  hidden  in  a  safer  place,  so 
that  it  might  as  well  have  remained  in  the  bowels  of 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  85 

the  earth.  The  water  gate  of  the  Tower  opens  no 
more  to  criminals  coming  privately  by  the  river,  that 
the  popula-ce  need  not  attempt  a  rescue ;  few  people  go 
to  prison  now  whom  the  public  do  not  condemn  as 
heartily  as  those  in  authority.  The  Thames  is  but  a 
muddy  and  insignificant  stream,  t6  have  watered  so 
great  space  in  English  history  and  fiction.  There  are 
few  English  books  that  do  not,  in  some  form,  pay  trib- 
ute to  it-  I  am  inclined  to  say  "  amen  "  to  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley's  opinion  of  London  Bridge ;  it  is  one  of 
many  gray  old  structures  dotted  over  England,  which 
seem  to  have  come  into  being  with  the  ground  they 
stand  on,  to  serve  as  patterns  for  men  to  build  from. 
Ghastly  memories  lurk  under  its  arches;  the  opaque 
water  has  often  closed  over 

"  One  more  unfortunate, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death;  '* 

but  it  bears  on  its  surface  an  abundant  and  busy  life, 
that  gives  small  thought  to  the  sorrowful  sights  below 
it.  Plenty  of  gay  little  steamers,  like  the  one  we 
boarded  at  the  bridge,  ply  up  and  down  the  river  all 
day,  carrying  deck  loads  of  passengers,  for  there  is  no 
cabin  accommodation.  Londoners  shed  rain  as  easily 
as  a  flock  of  ducks;  if  they  always  went  in  when  it 
rained,  they  would  stai/  i?i  most  of  their  lives.  We 
pass  over,  without  knowing  it,  that  tremendous  bore, 
the  Thames  Tunnel,  and  gradually  leave  behind  us  the 
dingy  walls  and  disreputable  suburbs,  which  most  do 
congregate  on  the  banks  of  rivers  in  a  city. 

After  a  while  the  river  begins  to  clear  its  charac- 


86  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

ter  from  the  stains  of  man's  imperfections,  and  the 
peculiarly  bright-green  grass  of  this  climate  slopes 
down  on  either  bank  to  meet  its  caresses.  Greenwich 
must  find  favor  in  ail  eyes  approaching  it  from  the 
water. 

The  Hospital  rears  a  noble  front  close  upon  the  river, 
and  on  a  hill  beyond  rises  the  Observatory  where  lon- 
gitude begms.  An  Englishman  accompanied  us  whom 
we  looked  upon  as  an  excellent  guide,  till  it  came  out, 
as  we  landed,  that  this  was  also  his  first  visit  to  Green- 
wich. Knowing  he  could  see  it  at  any  time,  he  had 
never  seen  it  at  all;  like  the  old  farmer  whom  Lowell 
found  among  the  White  Hills,  who  had  always  lived 
w^ithin  a  mile  of  the  "Old  Man  of  the  Mountain,"  and 
had  never  cared  to  look  towards  it.  We  went  first 
into  a  grand  entrance  hall  hung  round  with  portraits 
of  naval  heroes;  the  ceiling  was  one  vast  fresco  on 
some  mythological  subject,  which  I  was  content  to  be- 
lieve a  miracle  of  art,  rather  than  to  break  my  neck  in 
studying  it.  This  hall  opens  into  the  "Painted  Cham- 
ber," having  one  whole  side  covered  with  an  allegorical 
picture  of  those  Hanoverian  despots,  the  Georges.  The 
painter,  not  content  with  his  name  in  a  corner,  has  intro- 
duced a  full  length  of  himself,  and  is  the  finest-looking 
man  in  the  picture.  Here  are  shown  the  coat  find  vest, 
with  a  bullet  hole  through  them,  that  Nelson  wore 
w^hen  death  found  him  at  Trafalgar.  Here,  too,  are 
the  relics  oT  Sir  John  Franklirrs  expedition,  found 
among  the  Esquimaux  —  forks  and  spoons,  coins,  a 
jack-knife,  and  a  little  book  which  must  have  looked 
to  the  Esquimaux  the  most  useless  thing  that  ever  was 
made.     Nelson  is  made  a  sort  of  demigod  at  Green- 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION,  87 

wich  by  statues,  busts, 'and  portraits;  but  the  stubborn 
ugliness  of  his  features  has  defied  the  skill  of  every 
artist  to  soften  them. 

It  must  be  a  cross,- grievous  to  be  borne  by  brethren 
of  the  brush  and  chisel,  that  homely  men  so  often  insist 
on  being  lieroes. 

One  small  room  is  wholly  devoted  to  Nelson  pictures; 
in  one  called  his  '^immortality,''  he  is  being  carried  to 
the  upper  world  by  fat  little  cherubs,  who  seem  actually 
to  puff  over  their  work ;  one  of  them  carried  a  scroll 
with  the  words,  "  England  expects  every  man  to  do  his 
duty;"  and  the  whole  picture  is  a  conglomerate  mass 
of  angels  and  tritons  tugging  at  one  heavy  man.  One 
IS  sorry  to  find  the  name  of  Benjamin  West  in  the 
corner. 

The  chapel  is  rich  in  wood  carving  and  marble  pave- 
ment, but  the  seats  are  only  wooden  benches;  the  old 
men  would  never  miss  a  fluted  pillar  or  two,  while 
cushions  would  be  a  great  luxury  to  them.  It  seems  • 
to  me  that  in  nearly  all  hospitals  and  asylums,  and 
other  stow-away  places  for  cast-off  humanity,  the  archi- 
tects provide  so  largely  for  the  souls  of  the  inmates 
that  there  is  very  little  left  for  their  bodies ;  whereas, 
in  reality,  they  are  all  body,  and  no  soul  worth  men- 
tioning. 

The  domestic  part  of  this  Hospital  is  in  the  old  royal 
palace  of  the  Stuarts ;  the  great  hall,  once  the  ball-room 
of  Charles  II.,  that  merry  and  worthless  king, — 

**  Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing, 
And  never  did  a  wise  one,"  — 

is  now  divided  into  bedrooms  for  the  pensioners ;  the 


88  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

doors  were  all  open,  displaying  such  little  knick-knacks 
as  sailors  love  to  collect. 

There  is  nothing  about  the  room  to  reraind  one  of 
the  time  when  virtue  went  clean' out  of  fashion  under 
the  Stuarts.  The  walls  must  often  have  looked  down 
on  the  neglected  queen,  Catharine  of  Braganza,  least 
of  all  women  in  the  eves  of  her  husband,  who  forced 
her  to  treat  courteously  the  courtesans  who  had  sup- 
planted her.  At  the  end  of  this  great  room  is  a  statue 
of  the  everlasting  Nelson,  and  on  the  pedestal  lay  a 
small,  dirty  bundle,  which  proved  to  be  a  pair  of  stock- 
ings worn  by  him  on  some  remarkable  occasion. 

If  the  shades  of  the  departed  ever  revisit  the  earth, 
the  ghost  of  Nelson  must  wear  a  bitter  sneer  over  the 
hero-worship  which  could  give  a  place  of  honor  to  his 
stockings,  and  leave  his  beloved  Lady  Hamilton  to  die 
of  want ! 

From  the  hall  we  went  dpwn  to  the  old  men's  smok- 
•  ing-room,  without  which  no  sailor  could  be  happy.  A 
long  row  of  them  were  puffing  away  at  their  pipes,  a 
weather-beaten  but  chirruping  old  company. 

Long  tables  and  benches,  scoured  to  snowy  white- 
ness, were  ranged  along  an  immense  dining-room ;  an 
old  negro,  the  only  one  we  met  among  the  pensioners, 
did  the  honors  of  his  kitchen  with  a  pompons  affability 
never  to  be  reached  by  a  white  man.  His  hair  and 
beard  were  snow-white,  as  if  he  had  been  standing 
uncovered  in  a  snow-storm. 

The  great  tanks  for  tea  and  cocoa  sent  forth  a  goodly 
savor,  and  a  bowl  was  filled  with  tea  for  us  to  taste. 
We  found  it  very  good.  The  allowance  to  one  brew- 
ing is  three  and  a  half  pounds  for  four  hundred  men. 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION,  89 

I  know  not  if  this  is  the  same  computation  on  a  large 
scale  as  that  supj)Osed  to  have  been  established  by  the 
first  old  maid:  "Two  tea-spoonfuls  for  each  person  and 
one  for  the  teapot." 

Most  of  these  veterans  have  lost  a  leg  or  an  arm,  or 
bear  other  honorable  scars  from  their  country's  service. 
They  must  have  served  fourteen  years  in  the  navy,  or 
have  been  wounded  in  an  action  with  the  enemy,  before 
they  can  be  admitted  as  pensioners.  Many  of  them 
have  wives  outside,  and  draw  their  rations  to  be  shared 
with  them.  It  has  long  been  a  vexed  question  whether 
women  should  be  included  in  the  hospital  charity,  but 
nothing  has  been  done  about  it,  and  it  would  seem  to 
be  the  first  axiom  in  the  study  of  womankind,  that  no 
great  number  of  them  can  live  together  in  peace. 

The  quiet  comfort  of  the  Hospital  seems  to  renew 
the  lease  of  life  usually  given  to  men.  One  lean  and 
withered  old  fellow  hopped  after  us  on  his  wooden  leg, 
through  several  roon\g,  chirping  out  like  a  supe^rannu- 
ated  cricket,  that  "he  was  ninety-two,  and  his  wife 
eighty-eight,  and  they  never  missed  their  rations." 
Everywhere,  on  doorsteps  and  lying  on  benches  in 
sunny  spots,  we  came  upon  these  battered  old  hulks, 
safely  moored  at  last ;  an  air  of  garrulous  contentment 
hung  about  them  all,  only  one  thought  he  did  not  have 
*  tobacco  enough ;  but  who  ever  saw  an  old  sailor  who 
could  be  satisfied  in  that  particular? 

The  necessary  order  and  discipline  of  so  large  an 
establishment  cannot  oppress  them,  for  they  have  been 
used  to  it  all  their  lives  on  shipboard.  In  the  grounds 
is  a  full-rigged  ship  of  war,  in  which  a  school  of  boys, 
children  of  the  pensioners,  is  taught  the  rules  of  the 
naval  service. 


90  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  took  steam  again  for  Lon- 
don, full  of  admiration  for  this  noble  charity.  The 
English  do  a  thing  well  if  they  do  it  at  all,  and  one 
cannot  but  cherisli  a  warmer  feeling  towards  a  nation 
which  holds  out  such  kindly  arms  of  protection  to  the 
old  age  of  its  servants. 


A   WOMAJSrS    VACATION.  91 


CHAPTER  YIT. 

SUNDAY   IN   LONDON. 

Hamlet,  —  *'  Why  was  he  sent  into  England?  " 

Clown,  —  **  Why?    Because  he  was  mad ;  he  shall  recover  his 

wits  there,  or  if  he  do  not,  'tis  no  great  matter,  —  there  the  men 

are  as  mad  as  he/*  —  Shakspeare. 

IF  you  haye  but  one  Sunday  in  London,  it  is  a  diffi- 
cult matter  to  cut  it  up  to  advantage.  Ten  years 
ago,  all  strangers  and  sojourners  in  London  went  to  see 
and  hear  Mr.  Spurgeon ;  but  he  is  no  new  thing  under 
the  sun,  and  is  said  to  live  largely  on  the  income  of  liis 
reputation.  People  no  longer  pay  a  shilling  for  a  seat 
in  his  Tabernacle. 

The  gayest  and  most  ritualistic  church  service  is  at 
St.  Andrew's,  Welles  Street,  where  the  Protestantism 
is  so  very  "/u^A"  as  to  be  clean  out  of  sight.  In  ut- 
ter contrast  is  the  straight-backed  old  church  where 
Whitefield  preached,  the  mnn  who  was  said  to  put  so 
much  pathos  into  the  word  "Mesopotamia  "  as  to  bring 
tears  to  the  eves  of  his  hearers. 

John  Wesley,  who  was  so  tremulously  good,  that  he 
could  never  be  quite  certain  that  he  had  been  really  con- 
verted, preached  there  too,  but  the  mantle  of  neither  of 
these  prophets  of  Methodism  has  fallen  on  the  present 
shepherd.  Across  the  way  from  this  church  is  tlie  bury- 


92  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

ing-groiind  of  Bunhill  Fields,  where  Bunyan  rests  from 
his  "  progress." 

The  Temple  Church  ought  to  have  a  fraction  of  your 
Sunday.  A  bit  of  Norman  architecture,  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Knights  Templars,  whose  religious  vow 
hound  them  to  fight  the  enemies  of  the  church,  and 
whose  inclination  made  them  find  enemies  wherever 
there  were  revenge  and  plunder. 

Their  meek  symbols  of  the  cross  and  the  lamb  dot 
the  church  all  over,  and  their  effigies,  in  armor,  lie 
dead  enough  in  the  porch.  What  a  fall  was  there, 
when  they  "  decayed  through  pride,"  and  these  war- 
like precincts  were  given  over  to  lawyers,  though  it 
may  be  they  fight  harder  in  a  quiet  way  than  the 
Templars. 

In  a  sunny  nook  beside  the  church  "lyes  Oliver 
Goldsmith."  His  lack  of  common  sense  led  him  a 
hard  life  in  the  body,  but  his  sim|)licity  and  wisdom 
may  serve  in  the  other  world  to  make  his  spirit  re- 
spected. A  gate,  opening  into  a  still,  funereal  square, 
leads  to  the  Temple  Gardens,  a  sweet  green  spot  in 
the  w^ide  waste  of  London  streets.  The  wars  of  the 
Roses,  when  the  English  must  needs  fight  each  other, 
having  tired  out  their  enemies,  have  a  root  in  this  gar- 
den. When  the  lords  were  too  loud  in  the  Temple 
hall,  the  garden  was  "  more  convenient." 

Somerset »  —  '*  Let  him  that  is  no  coward  «or  no  flatterer, 
But  dare  maintain  the  party  of  the  truth, 
Pluck  a  red  rose  from  off  this  thorn,  with  me.** 

War^wick.  —  "I  love  no  colors ;   and  without  all  color 
Of  base,  insinuating  flattery, 
I  pluck  this  white  rose  with  Plantagenet." 


A   WOMAN" S    VACATION.  93 

Plantagenet,  —  *'  Hath  not  thy  rose  a  canker,  Somerset?  " 
Somerset.  —  *'  Hath  not  thy  rose  a  thorn,  Phmtagenet?  " 

Here  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  lived,  and  made  puns 
in  upper  chambers,  and  were  visited  by  famous  friends. 
We  found  the  Very  fountain  where  John  Westlock  and 
Ruth  Pinch  stood,  when  they  looked  in  each  other's 
eyes  and  found  love  there ;  one  of  the  prettiest  love 
scenes  ever  put  together  by  Dickens  or  another. 

But  if  you  want  to  be  thrilled  by  the  sweetest  music 
this  side  heaven,  you  will  go  to  a  service  at  the  Found- 
ling Hospital,  and  hear  an  anthem  sung  by  four  hun- 
dred orphan  children.  Their  orphanhood  may  not 
affect  the  music,  but  it  will  affect  your  feelings,  which 
amounts  to  the  same  thing.  If  the  pearly  gates  do  not 
open  then,  and  show  a  gleam  of  the  white-robed  crowd 
within,  you  must  be  hard-hearted  indeed. 

The  hospital  was  founded  by  Captain  Thomas  Coram 
for  exposed  and  deserted  children,  of  whom  he  had 
been  one.  From  the  unaccountable  perversity,  com- 
mon to  all  trustees,  that  no  testator  once'  safe  under 
ground,  should  ever  have  his  own  way,  the  hospital  has 
been  changed  to  a  receptacle  for  illegitimate  children 
whose  mothers  are  known^  whereas  Captain  Coram's 
object  was  to  provide  for  those  little  miserables,  whose 
mothers  had  deserted  them  because  they  did  not  wish 
to  be  known.  One  misrht  leave  a  fortune  to  charitable 
purposes  with  a  serene  mind,  if  one  were  sure  of  com- 
ing into  the  world  about  once  in  every  fifty  years  to 
look  after  it.  The  foundation  is  a  very. rich  one,  but 
no  stranger  can  pass  its  door  without  dropping  a  bit 
of  silver  (copper  will  not  do)  into  the  plate  held  there 
for  the  purpose. 


94  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

When  any  modern  Job  is  given  over  to  the  adver- 
sary to  be  tempted,  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  first  step 
is  to  get  him  elected  as  trustee  of  an  orphan  asylum. 

The  girls  at  the  "Foundling"  wear  a  picturesque 
costume  of  brown  stuff  frocks,  with  white  aprons,  and 
three-cornered  handkerchiefs  over  the  shoulders,  and 
a  little  Normandy  cap  with  high  crown,  an  exceed- 
ingly becoming  fashion,  revived  for  girls  in  the  year 
of  our  Lord  1873. 

Illegitimate  children  are,  for  obvious  reasons,  hand- 
somer, as  a  rule,  than  the  offspring  of  poor  and  lawful 
parentage,  and  many  of  the  boys  and  girls  at  the 
Foundling  are  "  not  Angles,  but  angels." 

Any  mother  might  be  proud  to  call  them  hers.  The 
children  are  trained  to  make  the  responses  musically, 
and  if  they  cannot  understand  the  sermon,  they  can  rest 
their  eyes  with  looking  at  the  lovely  picture,  by  Ben- 
jamin West,  of  "  Christ  blessing  little  children."  The 
effect  is  very  pretty  at  one  point  in  the  service,  when 
they  all  bury  their  faces  in  their  aprons  for  a  moment ; 
they  look  like  a  multitude  of  little  widows.  Dickens 
came  often  to  this  church,  and  used  it  more  than  once 
in  buildincr  his  books. 

After  service  we  went  through  the  crowded  but 
spotless  bedrooms,  and  into  the  long  dining-rooms, 
where  the  children  filed  in,  the  little  ones  led  by  the 
elders,  to  eat  their  Sunday  dinner  of  cold  beef  and  let- 
tuce, cut  up  in  little  hills  on  the  plates  of  the  younger 
fry.  They  made  some  little  exchanges  of  provender 
while  the  nurses  looked  another  way. 

One  little  girl,  with  great  dreamy,  blue  eyes  and  gold- 
en hair,  a  child  made  on  purpose  for  a  Sunday  school 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  95 

book,  and  sure  to  die  young,  was  a  picture  to  study. 
She  might  have  sat  for  a  cherub,  without  altering  a 
hair.  She  ate  with  indifference,  as  the  spiiitual  sort 
always  do,  until  a  neighbor  laid  violent  hands  on  her 
cup  of  water;  then  my  cherub  gave  the  hand  a  good 
scratch,  and  made  up  a  face  at  her  enemy,  that  destroyed 
my  angelic  theory  in  a  breath.  It  seems  to  be  a  notion 
born  with  us,  that  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes  imply  sweetness 
in  their  owner ;  an  old-fashioned  heroine  was  sure  to  be 
a  blonde,  and  the  villain  was  dark,  to  a  dead  certainty. 
My  little  orphan  at  the  Foundling  was  a  Tartar,  but 
people  will  be  deluded  by  her  all  her  life  long.  The 
hospital  is  made  a  weekly  show,  but  the  children  seem 
to  enjoy  it  as  much  as  their  visitors,  and  Captain  Coram 
would  not  have  objected  to  anything  that  made  them 
happy. 

In  the  old  town  of  Middleboro',  Mass.,  I  liave  seen  a 
Bible  hoarded  like  miser's  gold,  which  was  given  to 
Margaret  Hutchinson  "  by  her  friend,  Thomas  Coram," 
before  the  Revolution  —  a  stout  old  Bible,  once  thrown 
into  the  street  when  Governor  Plutchinson's  house  was 
sacked  by  a  Boston  mob,  but  doing  good  service  yet, 
like  this  other  noble  charity  of  the  giver. 

When  we  came  out  on  the  porch,  the  rain  poured 
down  in  torrents ;  it  could  not  have  rained  harder  on 
the  day  when  Noah  launched  the  ark,  and  the  wicked 
ones  began  to  think  he  meant  business  after  all. 

The  hospital  stands  far  back  from  the  street ;  no  cab 
was  to  be  had  for  love  or  money  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  our  feminine  souls  shrank  from  a  long  scout  in 
search  of  one. 

For  two  mortal   hours  we   stood   helpless  in  that 


96  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

porch,  reflecting  on  the  equality  of  the  sexes,  while 
husbands  and  fathers  made  distant  sallies,  bringing  back 
cab  after  cab  to  their  waiting  flocks.  We  prayed  ear- 
nestly to  these  cabmen  to  return  for  us,  but  tlieir  fires 
must  have  lived  at  Land's  End  or  John  o'  Groat's 
house,  for  "  they  went  on  their  way,  and  we  saw  them 
no  more." 

One  weighty  old  Englishman  had  engaged  a  cab  to 
come  back  for  him ;  but  when  it  arrived  a  quick-witted 
and  unscrupulous  little  widow,  with  a  troop  of  chil- 
dren all  dressed  in  mourning,  after  the  British  fashion 
(which  would  give  a  bereaved  dog  a  black  blanket), 
hurried  into  it,  and  it  was  just  starting  when  the  old 
gentleman  brought  up  his  rear  guard  of  dowagers  to 
take  it.  The  widow  regarded  him  sadly,  yet  serenely, 
as  widows  have  a  habit  of  doing,  and  nevei*  budged  ; 
he  grew  so  purple  in  the  face,  that  he  would  have  had 
a  fit  on  the  spot,  if  the  rain  had  not  cooled  him  ofll 

The  cabman  drove  away  like  Jehu,  son  of  Nimshi, 
before  he  could  recover  his  breath,  and  John  Bull  came 
back  to  the  porch  with  both  fists  doubled  up,  and  saying 
over  and  over,  in  a  subdued  roar,  "  If  it  had  not  been 
for  the  children ;  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  children  "  — 

But  for  them,  the  little  widow  would  evidently  not 
have  survived  long  enough  to  marry  again. 

"  If  we  were  only  widows ! "  sighed  Juno,  as  we  saw 
her  triumph.  "If  I  ever  come  abroad  again,"  said 
Minerva,  *'I  will  come  with  a  friend  and  her  husband. 
A  gentleman  in  the  party  is  absolutely  necessary  to 
comfort  in  travelling." 

"Friend's  husband!"  said  Juno,  scornfully;  "I  will 
come  with  a  husband  of  my  own,  and  neither  borrow 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  97 

nor  lend."  Juno  had  already  made  one  dive  into  the 
storm,  after  a  cab,  and  was  now  a  "  very  damp,  moist, 
unpleasant  body,"  indeed.  At  last  the  rain  held  up, 
—  a  most  unlikely  thing  for  English  rain  to  do,  —  and 
we  waded  home,  sadder  and  wiser  women. 

Some  time  since,  the  Prince  of  Wales  set  the  fashion 
of  going  to  "the  Zoo"  (which  is  short  English  for 
Zoological  Gardens)  on  a  Sunday  afternoon.  You  can 
see  the  wild  animals  at  any  time ;  but  since  the  royal 
visit,  if  you  want  to  study  men,  women,  and  monkeys 
at  the  same  time,  it  is  best  done  on  Sunday  afternoon. 

Another  favorite  haunt  of  Cockneys  on  Sunday  is 
the  palace  of  Hampton  Court,  which  Wolsey  built  and 
gave  to  Henry  VIII.,  who  had  a  habit  of  rolling  a 
greedy  eye  upon  whatever  his  courtiers  held  most  dear, 
whether  it  were  wives  or  liouses. 

The  approach  through  Bushy  Park  is  as  lovely  as 
ancient  oaks  and  shadow-flecked  grass,  tame  deer,  and 
mossy  old  fountains  can  make  it.  One  might  almost 
envy  Nebuchadnezzar  his  punishment,  if  he  were  to 
suffer  it  in  Bushy  Park.  The  palace  is  more  or  less 
inhabited  in  corners,  by  half-pay  officers,  aristocratic 
widows  who  have  seen  better  days,  and  other  poverty- 
stricken  gentry,  who  have  a  little  blue  blood  in  their 
veins,  and  some  claim  on  the  regard  of  the  crown.  I 
wish  the  queen  would  let  in  another  regiment  of  them, 
and  shut  up  a  few  of  the  endless  galleries  where  one 
asks  for  bread  and  gets  only  pictures,  long  before  the 
last  room  is  reached.  The  majority  of  the  pictures  are 
like  Dean  Swift's  country  house, — 

'*  Too  bad  for  a  blessing,  too  good  for  a  curse  ; 
I  wish  from  my  soul  it  were  better  or  worse.** 


98  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

One  or  two  heads,  by  Titian,  gleam  out  of  darkness, 
but  the  specimens  of  the  old  masters  are  but  the  sweep- 
ings of  their  studios.  The  room  where  one  lingers 
longest  is  perhaps  the  one  containing  the  portraits  of 
the  beauties  of  Charles  II.'s  court,  painted  by  Lely,  and 
Vandyke,  and  Kneller. 

They  were  a  graceless  set,  and  they  look  as  if  they 
gloried  in  the  fact,  and  would  not  have  it  otherwise  if 
they  could. 

Nell  Gwynne,  who  boasted  herself  "the  Protestant 
mistress  "  (as  if  those  two  words  could  ever  live  to- 
gether ! ),  looks  unfit  to  sell  oranges  at  a  theatre  door, 
or  to  do  any  other  honest  business.  The  one  exqui- 
site face,  a  lily  among  passion-flowers,  is  the  Countess 
of  Richmond,  for  whose  charms  Charles  II.  would  have 
divorced  the  childless  Catharine,  if  Clarendon  (who 
"wished  to  secure  the  succession  of  his  own  daughter 
to  the  throne)  had  not  manoeuvred  her  into  a  marriage 
with  the  old  Duke  of  Richmond.  She  is  grudgingly 
acknowledged  to  have  been  good,  when  it  was  the  all- 
prevailing  fashion  to  be  bad. 

One  other  portrait  among  ten  thousand,  keeps  house 
in  my  memoiy,  a  head  of  Madame  de  Pompadour,  by 
Greuze,  who  always  painted  women's  heads,  as  if  he 
were  in  love  with  every  one  of  them.  If  you  cover 
the  lower  part  of  her  face,  the  rest  is  intellectual  in  the 
highest  degree ;  but  if  you  hide  the  upper  part,  it  is 
only  voluptuous.  She  caught  the  king  with  her  mouth 
and  chin,  but  she  held  him  with  her  eyes  and  forehead. 

When  I  look  back  on  Hampton  Court,  it  seems  to 
have  been  haunted  chiefly  by  Queen  Charlotte  and  her 
fifteen  children.     One  of  them,  the  Duchess  of  Glouces- 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  99 

ter,  always  accounted  for  the  misfortunes  of  her  family 
by  saying,  "  There  were  too  many  of  us  —  too  many 
of  us!" 

They  line. broad  walls,  the  queen  looking  intoler- 
ably self-satisfied;  and  the  whole  fifteen,  if  they  were 
"  summed  up  and  closed  "  in  one,  would  not  have  had 
grace  enough  to  be  worth  painting. 

The  gardens  of  Hampton  Court  are  the  loveliest  part 
of  it ;  the  giant  grape  vine,  planted  by  Mary  Stuart, 
has  thriven  better  than  any  other  seed  of  her  planting^ 
and  tlie  fragrant  darkness  of  the  Lady's  Walk  is 
worthy  of  her  tread. 

The  half-pay  officers  and  the  aristocratic  widows  are 
in  clover  here ;  they  must  have  been  well  ofl^,  indeed, 
if  they  have  seen  better  days  than  they  find  in  this 
palace.  Five  cartoons  of  Raphael,  made  familiar  to  us 
by  engravings,  used  to  glorify  Hampton  Court,  but 
they  have  been  removed  to  the  museum  at  South  Ken- 
sington. 

In  that  museum  is  everything  in  the  way  of  gold,  and 
precious  stones,  and  china,  and  wrought  work,  that  it 
ever  entered  a  woman's  heart  to  desire  ;  but  the  collec 
tion  is  so  inhuman  in  its  vastness,  that  one  tires  of  it  at 
last,  and  longs  to  balance  it  by  a  week  in  a  wigwam, 
WMth  clam-shells  for  spoons. 

The  same  feeling  of  satiety,  the  Apollyon  of  travel- 
lers, clutches  us  before  we^  have  even  glanced  at  all 
the  rooms  of  the  National  Gallery,  in  Trafalgar  Square. 
There  are  no  pictures  there,  however,  that  one  can  feel 
a  comfortable  contempt  for.  I  only  wish  that  some  of 
the  hard,  old  virgins  painted  in  the  dark  ages,  whose 
facial  angles  could  be  demonstrated  like  a  pri)pojsitioii 


100  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

in  Euclid,  might  be  burnt,  for  the  credit  of  the  women- 
kind  who  lived  at  that  date. 

Here  an  altar  is  set  up  for  Turner,  the  one  god  of 
English  art,  and  Ruskin,  his  prophet.  I  longed  to  ad- 
mire his  pictures,  but  I  could  only  admire  Ruskin,  that 
he  had  eyes  to  see  the  beauty  hidden  from  me.  Now 
and  then  he  has  a  landscape,  sunlit  and  restful  as  a 
Claude,  but  for  the  most  part  he  has  gone  color-mad. 

In  a  picture  called  (I  believe)  "  Rain,  Wind,  and 
Speed,"  he  must  have  rubbed  together  with  his  thumb 
all  the  colors  on  his  palette,  and  then  copied  the  result 
on  canvas.  After  severe  study,  I  thought  he  meant  to 
make  a  locomotive  driving  through  a  stormy  night; 
but  very  likely  it  was  something  altogether  different. 

We  greet  Hogarth's  "Marriage  a  la  Mode"  as  an 
old  friend ;  but  like  all  broad  satire,  there  is  small  com- 
fort in  looking  at  it ;  it  leaves  a  bad  taste  in  the 
mouth. 

There  are  one  or  two  portraits  by  Gainsborough,  who 
either  had  the  luck  to  paint  very  noble  and  pure-look- 
ing women,  or  the  genius  to  make  them  look  so  on  can- 
vas. f\  don't  know  which  would  be  the  greater  boon, 
to  have  beauty  and  suffer  the  fading  of  it,  or  to  look 
like  common  folks  in  the  flesh,  and  receive  an  immor- 
tality of  loveliness  in  a  portrait  by  Gainsborough.J 

There  is  a  group  of  baby  angels  by  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds, in  whom  every  mother  must  trace  a  look  of  her 
own  treasures ;  and  out  of  a  crowd  of  better  and 
famous  pictures  looks  a  wonderful  woman's  head,  with 
black  eyes,  and  a  crown  of  gold  hair,  by  Paris  Bor- 
doni.  It  made  me  seize  the  catalogue  ravenously,  and 
alter  all  it  was  only  "  An  Italian  Lady."     If  you  iind  a 


A  WOMAN 'S  VACA  TION.  101 

head  in  any  gallery  that  tells  you  some  bewildering 
story,  the  catalogue  is  sure  to  call  it  "  Portrait  of  a 
Lady,"  or  "  Head  of  a  Gentleman."  You  knew  that  be- 
fore, and  straightway  christen  it  for  yourself.  This 
gold-haired  splendor,  whom  I  alone  bowed  down  to, 
should  have  had  a  dagger  in  her  hand,  and  been  called 
^A  Woman  Undecewedr 

There  are  clouds  of  angels,  and  great  companies  of 
martyrs,  each  with  a  face  of  his  own,  no  two  alike,  by 
that  rare  artist,  Fra  Angelico,  who  never  painted  any- 
thing until  he  had  first  seen  it  in  a  vision  of  prayer. 

One  or  two  pictures  by  Rubens,  in  violent  contrast, 
seem  to  have  been  painted  in  a  vision  of  lust. 

Your  worn-out  enthusiasm  will  revive  again,  as  you 
stand  before  a  "  Holy  Family,"  by  Mui  illo.  Joseph 
looks  good  and  reliable,  as  Joseph  ought  to  look ;  and 
the  child  is  maturely  beautiful,  a  divine  baby  ;  but  the 
Virgin  herself  is  that  sure  triumph  of  art,  in  a  woman's 
face,  which  unites  sense  with  beauty.  Other  virgins 
have  been  pretty  or  pious,  sometimes  both,  and  some- 
tii^es  neither;  but  this  one  hns  the  mildness  of  the 
dove  and  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent,  a  woman  to  be 
admired  by  her  own  sex,  which  implies  vastly  more 
than  beauty.  Take  away  all  the  accessories,  leaving 
her  alone  in  the  picture,  and  she  would  make  a  perfect 
Puritan  maiden,  like  Priscilla,  as  she  sang  the  hun- 
dredth psalm  to  the  sound  of  her  spinning-wheel. 

Two  pleasant  lounging-places,  for  an  empty  forenoon 
in  London,  are  the  British  Museum  and  the  Royal 
Academy,  though  the  immensity  of  the  former  is  too 
oppressive  for  comfort.  The  headless  marbles  are  per- 
haps the  most  satisfying  part  of  it,  because  one  can  fit 


102  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

better  heads  to  them  in  imagination,  than  the  sculp- 
tors did. 

The  young  men  and  maidens  who  come  to  make 
sketches  from  them,  are  not  much  overawed  by  their 
grandeur;  their  behavior  pLainly  indicated  that  draw- 
ing and  flirtation  are  kindred  arts. 

We  were  a  very  serious  party  till  the  gold  ornament 
room  enabled  us  to  throw  off  the  accumulated  solem- 
nity of  these  stony  halls.  Any  householder  in  London 
can  give  you  a  ticket  to  read  in  the  great  "  Reading 
Room,"  but  it  is  so  intolerably  large  and  lofty,  that  the 
atmosphere  seems  to  press  harder  than  fifteen  pounds 
to  the  square  inch.  One  would  not  dare  to  ask  for  any 
lighter  book  than  Buckle's  History  of  Civilization./   ,^:> 

The  Royal  Academy  is  the  yearly  expression  of 
modern  English  art.  The  pictures  are  so  gay-colored 
and  brisijht  that  it  warms  the  cockles  of  one's  heart  to 
look  at  them,  after  a  long  course  of  the  "funeral  baked 
meats  "  of  the  middle  ages  in  other  galleries.  This  is 
the  prevalent  feeling,  for  we  saw  one  or  two  suburban 
families  who  meant  to  make  a  day  of  it,  and  l^ad 
brouglit  their  luncheon.  They  ate  it  with  much  relish, 
as  English  people  always  eat,  and  then  attacked  the 
pictures  with  renewed  strength. 

In  the  National  Gallery  there  is  scarcely  a  room  in 
which  some  St.  Sebastian,  stuck  all  over  with  arrows, 
as  if  he  were  a  pin-cushion,  would  not  take  away  one's 
appetite  for  vulgar  food. 
f^  To  me  the  picture  of  the  year  was  "  Eve  seeing  a 
Snake  after  leaving  the  Garden."  Nobody  else  seemed 
to  care  for  it,  but  I  suppose  every  picture,  as  well  as 
every  woman,  has  one  admirer.  |  She  carries  one  fair 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION,  103 

child  on  her  shoulder,  and  the  little  black -browed  Cniu 
is  killing:  the  snake.  It  seemed  to  me  the  artist  must 
have  been  a  woman  himself  in  some  previous  state  of 
existence,  to  have  mingled  with  the  beauty  of  her  face 
go  much  sorrow,  deprecation,  and  loathing. 

The  strength  of  this  exhibition  lies  in  its  portraits, 
from  royalty  downward;  and  I  understand  that  the 
English  nobility  looks  better  ou  canvas  than  any- 
where else. 


104  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 


CHAPTER  VIIL 


BELGIUM. 


"There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night. 
And  Belgium's  capital  liad  gathered  there 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry." 

E  Americans  like  to  stay  in  England  as  we  like 
to  visit  our  grandmother.  Everything  is  ar- 
ranged about  her  precisely  as  we  saw  it  last,  and  will 
be  so  to  the  end  of  her  days.  She  is  "  set  as  the  ever- 
lasting hills;"  but  in  the  hurries  and  worries  of  Amer- 
ican life  it  is  good  to  think  of  one  settled  thing  in  the 
world,  an  island  where  it  is  "  always  afternoon."  She 
is  too  old  to  change,  even  if  she  were  not  convinced 
that  the  old  ways  are  best.  She  builds  her  rail  cars 
like  carriages,  because  they  will  be  more  private,  and 
half  the  people  must  ride  backwards,  whether  it  agrees 
with  them  or  not.  She  has  never  travelled  in  Amer- 
ica, and  has  no  idea  that  there  is  more  privacy  in  sixty 
people  sitting  with  their  backs  to  each  other  in  one  car, 
than  in  four  staring  into  the  eyes  of  another  four 
through  all  her  carriages.  The  animals  in  the  ark 
had  no  checks  for  their  baggage,  and  it  has  never 
occurred  to  her  that  any  of  their  descendants  would 
need  tliem. 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  105 

She  calls  all  the  new  words,  thnt  we  coin  as  easily 
as  we  breathe,  slangy  and  useless;  there  were  words 
enough  before.  She  is  certain  that  we  all  talk  through 
our  noses,  and  when  one  of  us  writes  a  good  book,  or 
becomes  otherwise  distinguished,  she  puts  on  her  spec- 
tacles and  eyes  us  from  head  to  foot,  just  as  our  grand- 
mother would,  saying  in  effect,  "  Bless  me,  how  you 
have  grown ! " 

She  is  tedious  sometimes,  but  to  leave  her  decorous 
house  for  the  dark  ways  of  the  Continent  is  like  a 
second  farewell  to  home. 

Travelling  is  comparatively  easy  where  people  speak 
some  sort  of  English  (if  not  the  best),  but  for  women 
taking  their  lives  in  their  hands,  the  wolf  is  waiting 
at  every  foreign  corner.  It  is  true  you  can  always 
disarm  him  with  p,  piece  of  money  —  if  your  money 
holds  out,  there  is  no  fear  of  wolves  6r  anything  else 
in  Europe. 

There  is  no  pleasant  way  of  getting  out  of  England, 
and  the  manners,  of  travelling  English  indicate  plainly 
that  Providence  never  intended  them  to  leave  their 
island.  It  is  just  a  choice  of  evils,  and  every  one  is 
sure  that  he  has  chosen  the  worst. 

Our  way  lay  through  Harwich,  and  thence  by  steamer 
to  Antwerp.  The  German  Sea  is  always  as  uneasy  as 
if  it  had  not  half  room  enough  to  spread  itself,  and 
sometimes  it  is  rough  and  bearish,  as  the  nation  which 
gives  it  its  name ;  but  this  route  is  not  a  favorite,  and 
there  is  alwa^'s  half  a  chnnce  to  lie  down  in  the  little 
cabin  and  to  be  as  miserable  as  one  likes:  in  the  crowded  ) 
boats  between  Dover  and  Calais  there  is  no  room  even 
to  pile  up  agony.  ]\ 


106  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

I  _  •  _  ■ 

Our  own  sufferings  were  greatly  mitigated   (since 

"we  have  always  fortitude  to  bear -the  misfortunes  of 

others ")  by  watching  the  rise  and  fall  of  rage  in   a 

handsome  young  woman  at  being  separated  from  her 

husband  and  forced  to  lie  on  a  mattress  on  the  floor  of 

the  cabin.     Her  diamond  earrings  and  travelling:  suit, 

fearfully   and    wonderfully    made,    suggested    a   bride. ^ 

Angry  passions  are  becoming  to  some  pretty  women 

—  they  give  brilliancy  to  the  gray-eyed,  neutral-tinted 

sort- — but   the   face   of  this   one    clouded   over,   and 

actually  blackened  like  summer  sky  before  a  sudden 

tempest. 

The  quiet,  sensible-looking  man  who  had  evidently 
taken  her  for  better  or  worse,  and  was  rapidly  finding 
it  worse,  put  in  a  word  of  deprecation  now  and  then 
in  vain,  and  finally  listened  in  sileiice  till  the  storm 
was  over. 

I  have  no  doubt  they  kissed  and  made  up  afterwards, 
but,  when  they  went  off  the  boat,  the  husbnnd  cast  a 
lingering  and  dubious  look  behind  him,  as  if,  perad ven- 
ture, he  had  lost  in  the  night  some  cherished  illusion 
of  the  sweetness  of  matrimony  that  he  would  never 
find  again.  I  fear  we  women  shall  never  know  how 
many  funerals  of  sweet  old  beliefs  men  go  to  in  the 
first  year  of  their  married  life. 

The  steamer  flounders  through  the  w^hole  night,  and 
arrives  at  Antwerp  any  time  in  the  forenoon.  There 
is  no  hurry  in  this  latitude;  one  day  is  as  good  as 
another. 

The  examination  by  the  custom-house  officers,  like 
that  in  all  foreign  places,  amounts  to  nothing.  You 
have  only  to  open  your  possessions  with  alacrity,  and 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  107 

tliey  will  be  more  eagar  than  yourself  to  close  them  up 
and  have  done  with  it.  They  cannot  bore  you  half  so 
much  as  you  apparently  bore  them. 

At  the  Hotel  de  FEurope  we  rejoiced  in  stately  halls 
on  the  ground  floor,  but  all  was  not  gold  that  glittered. 
Dante  could  not  have  contrived  a  worse  place  in  his 
Inferno  for  keeping  people  awake.  A  paved  driveway 
tunnelled  the  house,  and  ended  in  a  court-yard,  where 
all  the  business  of  the  liouse  was  carried  on.  There 
all  the  bells  ring,  all  the  water  is  pumped  out  of  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  and  all  the  dishes  are  washed,  far 
into  the  small  hours  of  the  nisfht.  Horses  and  carts 
are  drawn  up  at  your  bedroom  door,  as  if  there  were  a 
cholera  patient  to  be  taken  out  under  cover  of  dark- 
ness. In  the  morning  a  great  calm  settled  on  that 
court-yard,  daylight  brought  "a  poultice  to  heal  the 
blows  of  sound ;"  but  we  shook  the  dust  of  Antwerp 
off  our  feet,  and  fled  into  another  city  before  the  day 
was  over. 

Women  and  dogs  have  apparently  taken  a  contract 
to  do  all  the  work  in  Antwerp,  and  it  is  hard  to  tell 
which  of  them  have  the  most  hairorard  faces.  Of  all 
animals,  hard  labor  seems  to  be  least  becoming  to  these 
two;  they  were  meant  to  exist  more  for  ornament  than 
use,  and  when  they  are  galled  with  harness,  it  outrages 
a  natural  law. 

The  cathedral,  the  pride  of  Antwerp,  is  free  to  visit- 
ors until  noon,  when  the  pictures  are  unveiled  and 
shown  for  a  franc.  This  is  one  of  the  sharp  and  pious 
tricks  of  the  Catholic  churches  to  make  heretics  pay 
tithes  to  them.  The  great  picture  is  Rubens's  "De- 
scent from  the  Cross,"  or  rather  Christ's  ''  Descent  from 


108  BEATEN   PATHS,    OR 

the  Cross,"  for  the  startling  reality  of  the  scene  makes 
one  forget  Rubens  and  his  picture  altogether. 

*  The  small  side-pieces  attached  to  it,  of  Elisabeth 
greeting  Mary,  and  the  Virgin  presenting  the  young 
child  to  Simeon,  take  away  from  the  unity  of  the 
centre.     One  picture  should  tell  but  one  story. 

This  is  almost  the  only  picture  by  Rubens  that  does 
not  give  me  the  impiession  of  being  painted  by  the 
pound.  His  Virgins  and  Sabine  women  are  so  intoler- 
ably fat  as  to  be  a  burden  to  themselves  and  everybody 
else.  Hidden  behind  a  pillar  there  is  a  famous  head 
of  Christ,  painted  on  a  block  of  marble  by  Leonardo 
da  Vinci.  It  is  tlie  face  of  a  man,  handsome,  refined, 
and  sad,  but  scarcely  divine  —  a  sort  of  Unitarian 
Clirist,  beautiful  enough  for  love  and  imitation,  but 
scarcely  powerful  enough  to  save. 

The  cathedral  at  Antwerp  is  a  bright,  cheerful  place, 
a  church  to  take  comfort  in  as  well  as  to  worship,  not 
cold  and  gray  like  the  York  Minster,  and  other  Protes- 
tant churches. 

One  could  take  one*'s  knitting  and  gossip  away  an 
afternoon  under  the  bedizened  fissure  of  the  Virmn 
and  in  the  light  of  lier  candles  —  she  is  only  another 
woman  —  without  the  least  sense  of  disrespect  to  the 
church ;  and  this  is  the  chief  reason,  I  think,  why  the 
Roman  Catholic  fiiith  holds  the  ignorant  mind  with 
so  tenacious  a  grasp.  The  churches  are  always  open,' 
with  gay  colors  and  processions  to  enliven  them,  and 
BO  weave  religion  into  the  dailv  life  that  Protestantism 
seems  to  offer  in  exchange  only  a  dry  abstraction,  that 
one  can  scarcely  understand,  much  less  believe  in,  till 
he  has  learned  to  read  and  write.     The  women  run  in 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  109 

with  market  baskets  on  their  arms,  kneel  for  a  moment, 
and  mutter  a  prayer  as  fiimiliar  to  them  as  breathing, 
while  at  the  same  time  they  take  note  of  every  stran- 
ger that  passes  them.  They  offer  the  prayer  as  Hindoo 
women  offer  a  flower  to  their  god,  and  think  no  more 
about  it.  The  one  thinks  it  no  more  necessary  to  give 
all  her  attention  to  her  prayer,  than  the  other  to  ana- 
lyze her  flower  botanically.  To  such  a  woman  it  looks 
like  hard  work  to  be  a  Piotestant,  and  make  her  own 
prayers. 

There  is  an  old  and  young  Antwerp.  The  high- 
peaked  Spanish  houses  date  back  to  the  time  when  the 
grim  Duke  of  Alva  and  his  soldiers  ravaged  Belgium; 
the  gay,  light  houses  and  boulevards  of  the  new  town 
mark  the  coming  in  of  French  fashions. 

The  Museum,  a  famous  gallery  of  old  pictures,  is  a 
weary  procession  of  saints,  and  martyrs,  and  virgins, 
in  greater  or  less  agony.  If  you  have  tears,  prepare 
to  shed  them  now ! 

Every  thorn,  and  gaping  wound,  and  drop  of  blood 
must  be  plainly  visible  —  these  old  artists  lefl  notliing 
to  the  imagination.  If  they  could  have  painted  the 
groans  of  the  martyrs,  they  would  have  been  happy. 
In  one  picture  John  the  Baptist's  head  is  not  only 
offered  to  Herodias  on  a  charger  (we  are  used  to  that, 
and  don't  mind  it),  but  the.  dripping  neck,  from  which 
it  has  just  been  severed,  thrusts  itself  out  of  the  pic- 
ture into  your  face,  to  make  material  for  bad  dreams 
forevermore. 

A  very  good  butcher  was  spoiled  in  many  of  these 
old  Flemish  painters.  Now  and  then  a  black-eyed  girl 
by  Rembrandt,  or  a  sweet  St.  Catharine  disputing  with 


110  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

the  philosophers,  breaks  the  sad  monotony ;  and  there 
is  one,  "  Adoration  of  the  Magi,"  in  which  a  tall  camel   ^ 
overlooks  the  scene  with  a  benevolent  smile  —  it  is  the 
one  cheerful  face  of  the  gallery. 

The  deadly  materialism  of  Catholic  art  is  nowhere 
so  plain  as  in  the  freedom  with  which  these  old  paint- 
ers lifted  the  veil  which,  the  Bible  says,  cannot  be 
lilted  even  by  angels,  and  attempted  to  paint  God  him- 
self. In  a  famous  picture  of  the  dead  Christ,  a  vener- 
able old  man  looks  down  on  him  from  the  clouds ;  and 
it  gives  the  mind  a  certain  wrench  to  realize  that  this 
is  meant  to  be  the  first  person  of  the  Trinity,  whom  no 
man  shall  look  upon  and  live. 

Some  of  the  heathen  are  more  reverent,  sitting  for 
days  to  meditate  on  the  sacred  name,  and  never  daring 
to  utter  it. 

Among  the  other  copyists,  surrounding  famous  pic- 
tures to  repeat  better  men's  work,  is  an  armless  man, 
Mr.  Felu,  who  does  easily  with  his  toes  all  that  other 
people  do  with  their  fingers.  His  manner  is  so  natural 
that  1  passed  him  again  and  again  without  noticing 
Lis  peculiarity.  He  holds  his  palette  with  the  big 
toe  of  one  foot,  and  his  brush  with  the  other,  and  his 
copies  are  not  to  be  distinguished  for  nicety  from  the 
oriojinals. 

To  go  from  the  Museum  to  the  small  private  gallery 
"Nottebohra,"  at  No.  3  Rue  de  Fagot,  is  like  step- 
ping from  the  chapel  of  a  monastery  in  the  middle 
ages  into  the  brightest  salon  of  Paris.  The  pictures 
are  full  of  the  home-like  thoughts  of  to-day.  You  have 
not  the  labor  of  setting  your  thoughts  back  like  the 
hands  of  a  clock.    Lovers  of  Ary  Schoeffer  may  here 


A   WOMAN'S   VACATION'.  HI 

bow  down  to  his  Faust  and  Margaret.  There  have 
been  many  Margarets,  bat  this  is  the  true  one,  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning.  On  Faust's  chair  leans 
the  conventional  devil,  with  leering  eyes  and  claws,  a 
creature  who  could  never  tempt  any  one  to  sin,  charm 
he  never  so  wisely.  If  there  be  a  personal  devil,  Jas 
some  people  believe,  I  do  not  doubt  he  is  the  hand- 
somest man  in  the  world ;  otherwise  he  would  not  be 
fit  for  his  work.  "The  devil  is  a  gentleman,"  said 
King  Lear. 

To  paint  him  with  a  tail  and  claws,  and  a  mean 
countenance,  is  to  show  men  more  foolish  in  yielding 
to  him  than  they  naturally  are.  Milton  gives  him  a 
terrible  beauty,  but  artists  nearly  always  give  him  a 
face  that  sinners  as  well  as  saints  would  run  away 
from. 

Schoeffer  treats  the  "  Four  Ages  of  Man "  in  the 
soft,  delicate  way  peculiarly  his  own,  two  little  chil- 
dren playing  together,  a  youth  whispering  in  a  maiden's 
ear,  a  man  and  woman  looking  lovingly  at  the  play  of 
the  little  ones,  and  a  white-haired  couple  resting  hand 
in  hand  on  the  cottage  bench  after  the  journey  of  life. 

He  paints  that  other  hackneyed  subject,  the  "An- 
nunciation," like  no  one  else.  All  other  pictures  of  the 
Annunciation  must  needs  have  a  hill-side,  with  a  star 
rising  over  it,  and  small  bundles  of  clothes  lying  on 
their  faces,  which  are  supposed  to  be  shepherds;  but 
this  picture  is  just  a  group  of  impassioned  faces  of 
men  and  women  really  drinking  in  "glad  tidings  of 
great  joy." 

In  Antwerp  we  first  ran  against  that  curious  fashion 
of  fastening  looking-glasses  outside  of  ipverj'  window, 


112  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

that  the  lady  sitting  within  can  see  the  street  panorama 
without  any  trouble  but  that  of  raising  her  eyes.  It 
gives  the  passer-by  an  odd  sensation  to  look  into  re- 
flected faces  in  these  glasses;  it  is  a  temptation  to 
wink  or  to  smile  at  them,  to  make  sure  whether  they 
are  reality  or  only  pictures.  I  saw  some  very  pretty 
and  smiling  faces  so  framed  outside  of  German  win- 
dows, prettier  there  than  anywhere  else. 

They  make  a  rare  black  silk  in.  An  twerp,  a  silk  that 
will  stand  alone  —  a  dress  for  a  lifetime.  In  a  thrifty 
family  it  might  go  down  to  the  third  and  fourth  gener- 
ation ;  but  who  wants  a  dress  to  last  forever? 

The  country  between  Antwerp  and  Brussels  is  so 
flat  that  it  must  have  been  ironed  out  in  the  creation. 
The  fields  are  tilled  almost  entirely  by  women,  whose 
faces  are  as  wooden  as  their  shoes. 

Brussels,  the  capital  of  Belgium,  wears  a  clean  and 
finished  look,  deeply  grateful  to  the  eye;  not  a  city 
put  gradually  together  by  necessity  and  circumstance, 
but  each  part  fitting  into  the  others  as  if  calculation 
and  good  taste  had  been  invited  to  the  birth,  and  not 
called  in  when  it  is  too  late.  All  its  beauties  were 
foreseen  facts,  not  afterthoughts.  The  parks  are  in 
the  heart  of  the  city,  as  parks  ought  to  be.  A  city 
with  all  its  breathing-places  outside  of  it  is  like  a 
human  body  with  lungs  that  may  be  put  off*  and  on 
like  a  garment. 

The  names  of  its  streets  are  so  well  selected  as  to 
be  an  oddity  —  the  Royal  Street,  the  Street  of  Indus- 
try, of  Science,  of  Arts,  and  of  Long  Life.  I  could  not 
find  out  whether  the  last  was  the  abode  of  all  Bclglc 
patriarchs  or  not. 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION,  113 

The  carved,  lace-like  front  of  the  aged  Hotel  de  Ville 
looks  down  on  the  old  city,  where  all  the  great  deeds 
of  its  history  were  done.  In  the  square  now  used  as 
a  market,  crowded  with  women  and  vegetables,  there 
is  a  double  statue  of  Counts  Egmont  and  Horn,  who 
were  executed  on  that  spot,  and  the  Duke  of  Alva 
thrust  liis  ugly  head  out  of  an  upper  window  above  it 
to  see  the  thing. well  done. 

This  Count  Ei^mont  was  a  Catholic  noble,  but  he 
joined  the  cause  of  the  Protestants  because  he  did  not 
approve  of  their  being  persecuted.  He  became  their 
ambassador  with  Count  Horn  to  Philip  II.,  and  put 
faith  in  the  kind  reception  of  the  king.  When  AVil- 
liam  the  Silent  and  his  Protestants  fled  before  the 
Duke  of  Alva,  Egmont  could  not  be  persuaded  to  run 
away  with  them,  though  the  phlegmatic  William  be- 
souG^ht  him  with  tears. 

"Adieu,  prince  sans  terre"  (without  land),  said  Eg- 
mont when  they  parted.  "Adieu,  count  sans  tete" 
(without  a  head),  retorted  William.  And  one  of  the 
first  events  of  the  campaign  was  the  execution  of 
Egmont  and  Horn ;  whence  sprang  the  old  proverb 
about  Philip  11.,  that  "the  king's  dagger  is  close  be- 
hind his  smile."  In  Schiller's  play  Egmont  is  repre- 
sented as  an  interesting  bachelor,  but  he  really  had  a 
wife  and  nine  children,  a  very  respectable  condition  for 
real  life,  but  not  so  useful  for  poetry. 

Behind  the  Hotel  de  Ville  is  a  curious  statue,  called 
"the  Spitter,"  a  Tiiton  leaning  out  of  a  wall,  with  a 
stream  of  water  pouring  from  his  mouth. 

At  the  corner  of  St.  Catharine  and  De  TEtuve  Streets 
(a  needle  in  a  haystack  would  have  been  more  easily 

8 


114  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

found)  is  the  "  oldest  citizen  of  Brussels,"  its  palladium, 
a  little  black  statue  of  a  boy,  who  is  also  a  fountain. 
It  is  called  the  "Manikin,"  and  has  eight  suits  of 
clothes  for  holiday  occasions.  Louis  XVL  bestowed 
on  hira  the  order  of  St.  Louis,  and  an  old  maid  of 
Brussels  left  him  a  legacy  of  a  thousand  florins. 

Popular  delight  in  him  has  invented  more  than  one 
legend  of  his  stepping  down  from  his.  basin  and  going 
to  the  aid  of  his  friends. 

There  is  one  gallery  of  pictures  in  Brussels  so  unique 
in  character,  that  they  w^ill  stay  in  the  memory  when 
better  things  have  faded  out.  This  is  the  Wiertz 
Museum. 

The  great  picture  is  the  struggle  for  the  body  of 
Patroclus.  It  don't  matter  who  Patroclus  was,  except 
that  he  looks  very  dead  indeed ;  but  the  point  of  the 
picture  is  the  awful  strain  of  two  sets  of  men,  both 
bound  to  conquer-  or  die  in  the  attempt.  It  is  like 
looking  on  at  a  duel,  when  you  sympathize  with  both 
sides.  There  is  passion  enough  in  it  for  the  whole 
battle  of  Waterloo.  This  is  almost  the  only  picture 
into  which  the  artist  has  not  infused  as  much  oddity 
and  bitterness  as  genius.  The  oppression  of  earthly 
authority  is  grandly  shown  in  a  giant  grinding  a 
woman's  shoulder  between  his  teeth,  and  treading 
helpless  mortals  under  foot.  Perhnps  the  most  curious 
idea  is  expressed  in  the  "Man  of  the  Future,"  an  en- 
larged and  noble  figure  of  a  man,  holding  in  his  big 
hand,  and  regarding  with  a  pitying  smile,  the  baubles 
that  have  been  most  valued  by  mankind  —  coins,  flags, 
orders,  gems,  and  fire-arms.  Two  angels  look  on  with 
him  in  sympathetic  wonder. 


A   WOMAN'S   VACATION,  115 

ITear  this  is  a  figure  of  Napoleon  in  the  flames  of 
hell,  while  his  victims  hold  out  broken  limbs  to  him  as 
the  trophies  of  his  career.  A  bitter  hatred  of  Napo- 
leon and  French  despotism  runs  through  the  whole 
gallery ;  and  yet  the  artist,  against  his  will,  has  given  to 
Napoleon  a  face  so  sad  and  noble  that  the  sympathy 
of  the  beholder  cleaves  to  him,  and  not  to  those  who 
suffered  by  him.  Wiertz  was  a  wonderful  flesh  paint- 
er. Some  of  his  nude  "figures  of  women  remind  one 
of  Lady  Mary  Montague's  conclusion  when  she  saw 
Turkish  women  in  a  bath. 

"  I  was  here  convinced  of  the  truth  of  a  reflection 
that  I  have  often  made,  that  if  it  were  the  fashion  to 
go  naked,  the  face  would  be  hardly  observed,  and 
many  noted  beauties  would  have  to  abdicate  their 
thrones." 

Every  contrivance  is  resorted  to,  to  keep  up  the  illu- 
sion of  reality.  One  looks  through  a  knot-hole  in  a 
board-fence,  into  a  charnel-house,  where  a  woman,  too 
soon  buried  in  cholera  time,  is  just  forcing  up  her 
cofiin  lid,  and  realizing  the  horror  of  her  situation. 
Through  another  hole  is  seen  a  mother,  driven  mad[ 
by  starvation  in  Napoleon's  campaigns,  who  is  cutting 
up  her  child  to  boil  it  in  a  kettle.  The  curve  of  the 
little  cheek,  half  covered  in  her  apion,  is  the  only  soft- 
ening touch  in  the  terrible  picture. 

But  not  all  these  fantasies  arc  horrible.  In  a  corner, 
a  painted  girl  smiles  at  you,  through  a  crack  in  a 
painted  door,  so  naturally  that  you  smile  back  to  her 
before  you  can  realize  that  she  is  only  a  picture.  In 
another,  more  lovely  than  words  can  tell,  a  mother, 
just  arrived  in  heaven,  recognizes  the  child  that  had 
gone  before. 


116  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

Wiertz  was  low-born  and  poor,  and  the  iron  early 
entered  his  soul,  to  reappc^ar  in  his  pictures,  which  are 
full  of  scorn  and  bitterness  towards  all  the  world  that 
called  itself  superior  to  him.  He  is  as  vulgarly  self- 
conscious  in  his  art,  as  Byron  was  in  his  poetry.  He 
was  of  that  order  of  genius  wliich,  in  literature,  has 
produced  Frankenstein,  and  Vathek,  Poe's  stories,  and 
some  of  Hawthorne's  novels  —  a  select  few,  out  of  all 
humanity,  who  are  under  a  sort  of  opium  influence 
from  their  birth.  They  love  the  world  no  better  than 
the  world  loves  them. 

Sunday  is  the  gayest  day  of  the  week  in  Brussels. 
Between  one  and  two  o'clock,  all  the  world  goes  to 
promenade  in  the  park;  there  are  concerts  all  day,  and 
balls  in  the  evening.  On  our  Sunday,  there  was  a 
grand  military  and  religious  procession  in  honor  of  a 
church  festival.  Hundreds  of  gorgeous  banners  were 
carried  through  the  streets,  and  troops  of  little  girls  in 
white  carried  flowers  and  wreaths  before  the  Virgin. 
When  the  "Hpst"  was  carried  by,  under  a  canopy,  by 
a  group  of  priests,  all  the  women  fell  on  their  knees  in 
the  dusty  street  as  suddenly  as  if  struck  down  by  an 
invisible  hand.  The  men  were  mindful  of  the  knees 
of  their  trousers,  and  merely  crossed  themselves. 

Nearly  all  the  shops  were  open,  and  the  parks  were 
thickly  dotted  with  family  groups,  who  have  never 
conceived  of  a  devouter  way  to  spend  Sunday  than  to 
say  their  prayers  in  chui'ch  early  in  the  morning,  and 
then  to  enjoy  music,  and  dancing,  and  gossip  in  the 
parks  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  No  one  who  sees  them 
can  doubt  that  their  ignorance  is  bliss.  But  this  is  the 
right  side  of  the  tapestry ;  the  knots  and  roughnesses 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  117 

are  all  behind  it.  The  irreverence  which  makes  Sun- 
day a  day  of  pleasure  to  the  rich,  makes  it  also  only 
another  working  day  to  the  very  poor.  In  a  Saturday 
evening  walk  about  the  city,  one  of  us,  oppressed  by 
the  heat,  bethought  herself  of  a  linen  travelling  dress, 
ready  made ;  but  not  finding  one,  the  shop-woman  in- 
sisted that  she  would  have  one  made  to  order  and 
delivered  at  sunrise  Monday  morning ;  but  a  Puritan 
bringing-up  outweighed  the  heat  of  the  weather  and 
the  convenience  of  this  arrangement.  "  And  besides," 
said  Minerva,  after  her  pious  decision,  "you  know 
nothing  wears  well  that  is  sewed  on  Sunday." 

Half  a  franc  (ten  cents)  gives  entrance  to  a  brightly- 
lighted  garden,  where  one  may  sit  at  a  little  table  and 
sip  ice-cream,  listen  to  the  music  of  the  band,  and  take 
cold,  all  at  the  same  time,  with  delightful  ease. 

One  of  the  most  harrowing  chapters  of  Villette  has 
this  concert-garden  for  its  scene.  In  that  book,  Char- 
lotte Bronte  dissects  Brussels  and  its  people  as  coldly 
as  an  old  physician  does  his  work  in  the  hospital.  She 
found  handsome  women  there,  models  for  Rubens. 

"  With  one  of  those  beauties,"  she  says,  "  I  once  had 
the  honor,  and  rapture,  to  be  perfectly  acquainted. 
The  inert  force  of  the  deep-settled  love  she  bore  her- 
self was  wonderful.  It  could  only  be  surpassed  by  her 
proud  impotency  to  care  for  any  other  living  thing." 
If  Madame  Beck  be  still  living,  she  must  have  a  ner- 
vous feeling  of  sitting  for  her  portrait  to  every  pale- 
faced,  English  governess  that  teaches  in  her  school. 

In  the  Place  Royale  is  a  noble  statue  of  Godfrey  de 
Bouillon,  with  banner  uplifted,  the  defender  of  the 
holy  sepulchre,  who,  when  the  other  crusaders  would 


118  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

have  made  liira  king  of  Jerusalem,  refused  "to  wear  a 
crown  of  gold  where  his  Savior  had  worn  a  crown  of 
thorns."  It  looks  down  the  Rue  de  la  Madeleine,  one 
of  the  most  fascinating  streets  in  the  world  to  women. 
Money  burns  in  your  pocket  the  moment  you  enter  it. 
The  shops  are  small,  and  their  contents  might  sink 
forty  fathoms  deep  without  taking  away  one  jot  or 
tittle  from  the  use  or  comfort  of  the  world ;  but  beauty 
would  suffer  a  cruel  loss.  Every  second  window  is 
full  of  films  and  cobwebs  into  which  lace-makers  have 
wrought  many  lifetimes.  The  woman  who  invented 
lace  (I  am  sure  it  was  a  woman)  must  have  caught  her 
idea  from  frost-work  on  a  window ;  there  is  no  other 
pattern  on  earth  to  make  point  lace  by.  The  alternate 
windows  are  full  of  jewels  (not  jewelry,  which  is  apt 
to  mean  wrought  gold),  but  jewels^  in  which  the  value 
and  lustre  of  the  stones  quite  subdue  the  setting,  and 
reduce  it  to  its  right  place,  the  frame  to  the  picture. 
But  there  is  no  greater  mistake  than  to  suppose  that 
the  prices  corresj)ond  with  the  size  of  the  shops.  The 
first  American  lady  who  passed  that  way  held  up  both 
hands  with  astonishment,  and  said,  "  Haw  cheap ! "  and 
the  Bruxellois  have  been  laboring  ever  since  to  abate 
her  astonishment. 

The  English  say  that  Americans,  with  their  lavish 
ways,  have  spoiled  "the  Continent"  for  shopping. 

Ten  miles  away  from  Brussels  lies  the  Field  of 
Waterloo,  "the  grave  of  France,"  where  all  Europe 
fought  one  man,  and  got  the  better  of  him  at  last  by 
accident. 

In  an  open  carriage,  we  drove  through  the  Forest 
of  Soignios,  that  has  stoo<l  for  ngos,  nnd  been  bn?ught 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION,  119 

ft 

to  the  very  perfection  of  a  forest.  Byron  calls  it  the 
Forest  of  Ardennes,  where  Roman  legions  were  be- 
wildered. It  was  in  the  forest  of  Arden,  in  As  You 
Like  It,  that  the  exiled  duke  found  — 

**  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything." 

We  went  into  such  ecstasies  over  its  shadowy  beauty, 
that  our  stolid  old  coachman  asked  us  "  if  we  had  no 
such  forests  in  our  own  country ;"  and  we  said,  "  O  yes, 
plenty,"  hoping  thot  the  recording  angel  would  drop  a 
tear  on  our  patriotic  answer  and  blot  it  out,  when  he 
set  it  down  to  our  account.  The  trees  stand  close 
together  like  the  serried  ranks  of  an  army,  compact 
and  self-contained,  till  they  reach  the  upper  air,  and 
then  breaking  altogether  into  a  lusty  growth  of  dewy 
greenness  that  makes  a  cool  twilight  at  their  feet. 

**  To  sbarae  the  temples  decked 
By  skill  of  earthly  architect, 
Nature  herself,  it  seemed,  would  raise 
A  minster  to  her  Maker's  praise." 

The  village  of  Waterloo  was  Wellington's  head- 
quarter from  the  17th  to  the  19th  of  June,  1815,  the 
days  of  the  battle.  Here  the  guides  waylay  you  like 
bandits.  We  took  one  whose  father  had  fought  on 
the  French  side  (I  cannot  swear  that  this  is  not  a 
peculiarity  of  all  their  fathers),  and  who  described  the 
battle  with  French  enthusiasm.  At  Waterloo,  a  woman 
came  out  of  the  inn  with  a  pail  of  water,  squeezed  a 
wet  sponge  on  the  foreheads  and  washed  the  feet  of 
the  horses. 


120  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

The  latter  looked  much  finer  animals  than  the  crowd 
of  men  who  stood  about,  holding  up  the  door-posts, 
while  a  woman  did  their  work.  On  the  way  to  the 
"Field"  they  show  you  a  pretentious  monument, 
erected  by  Lord  Anglesea  to  a  leg  that  he  lost  in 
the  battle.  On  his  plan,  one  might  fill  up  a  grave- 
yard, and  yet  keep  one's  head  above  ground.  Such 
men  should  have  lachrymals  to  keep  their  tears  in. 
The  great  plains  of  Belgium  seem  made  on  purpose 
for  the  manoeuvres  of  hostile  armies,  giving  advantage 
to  neither  side.  The  monument,  in^the  shape  of  a  cir- 
cular mound,  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high,  is  raise  d 
on  the  spot  where  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  wounded. 
It  is  surmounted  by  a  lion,  cast  from  the  French  can- 
non taken  by  the  allies ;  but  no  one  ever  really  sees 
that  lion,  for  it  is  too  high  up  to  be  distinctly  visible 
from  the  plain,  and  too  near  when  one  has  scaled  the 
mound.  A  wiry  little  Scotch-looking  woman  keeps 
the  "  Museum  Hotel,"  where  a  great  treasure  of  skulls 
and  sword-blades  is  shown ;  and  she  does  so  bewilder 
and  obfuscate  the  minds  of  her  visitors  with  accounts 
of  her  uncle's.  Sergeant  Cotton,  behavior  in  the  battle, 
that  I  am  not  certain  to  this  day  whether  it  was  Ser- 
geant Cotton  or  the  "Iron  Duke"  who  said,  "Up, 
guards,  and  at  them ! "  The  French  army  was  so 
g'orious  in  failure,  that  it  lays  balm  to  the  national 
heart  to  this  day.  When  Napoleon  would  have  fought 
at  the  head  of  the  "  Old  Guard,"  Marshal  Soult  turned 
back  his  horse's  head  with  the  protest,  "  Sire,  the 
enemy  have  been  fortunate  enough  already."  All  lov- 
ers of  Napoleon  must  deeply  regret  this  little  mistake 
of  Marshal  Soult's.     The  great  man  should  have  died, 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  121 

but  never  surrendered.  The  epic  of  his  life  would 
then  have  been  rounded  with  a  true  French  period, 
instead  of  six  years  of  snarling  decay  on  the  rock  of 
St.  Helena. 

Many  reasons  have  been  given  for  the  fall  of  Napo- 
leon ;  only  this  one  is  dear  to  me  —  "a  poor  thing,  sir, 
but  mine  own."  He  compassed  a  throne  easily  enough, 
but  had  not  eyes  to  see  the  power  that  is  always 
behind  it.  Through  life  he  needlessly  and  wantonly 
affronted  the  self-love  of  women.  He  found  fault  with 
the  dresses  of  the  ladies  of  his  court  —  an  insult  that 
some  women  take  more  to  heart  than  a  slur  on  their 
beauty  or  reputation.  He  drove  away  Madame  de 
Stael  when  she  would  have  adored  him,  and  so  secured 
an  enemy  always  fighting  under  cover.  He  outraged 
the  whole  sex  by  divorcing  Josephine,  and  when  he 
married  a  princess  of  the  house  of  Austria,  counting 
on  her  influence  with  her  father,  the  simplest  of  women 
could  have  told  him  that  it  was  useless,  when  she  had 
a  step-mother.  And  he  suffered  Maria  Louisa  to  offend 
that  step-mother  by  outshining  her  in  diamonds,  and 
other  magnificence,  when  he  held  a  review  of  royalty 
at  Dresden.  His  minister  Talleyrand,  whose  career  is 
nearly  as  wonderful  as  his  own,  always  heartily  despised 
women,  but  never  overlooked  their  influence.  At  Se- 
dan, six  miles  from  Waterloo,  was  a  French  failure  of 
another  color.  There,  the  third  Napoleon  would  have 
been  almost  as  deeply  indebted  ^s  his  uncle  to  a  friend- 
ly bullet  in  his  back. 

Byron  has  fought  the  battle  over  again  in  poetry  in 
Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  and  Victor  Hugo  in  prose 
in  Les  Miserables.    Victor  Huoro  was  on  the  French 


122  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

• 

Bide,  the  gallant,  desperate  side,  and  Byron  wrote  on 
his  own  side,  w^hich  was  neither  French  nor  English. 
Thackeray  makes  some  "  copy "  out  of  it  too,  in  his 
Vanity  Fair,  when  all  the  English  people  were  fleeing 
for  their  lives  out  of  Brussels.  * 

In  the  Museum  at  South  Kensington,  near  London, 
there  is  a  picture,  by  Sir  Edwin  Landseer,  of  a  green, 
flat  bit  of  country,  and  in  the  foreground  are  two 
figures  on  horseback.  The  tall,  martial,  old  man  with 
high  cheek-bones  and  Roman  nose  is  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  pointing  out  to  the  pretty  woman  with 
him  the  spot  where  the  "red  rain"  fell  fastest,  and  the 
motto  on  the  frame  is  Southey's  line, — 

**  But  Hwas  a  famous  victory." 

The  whole  of  Belgium  has  the  serene  and  prosperous 
air  of  that  picture.  It  is  peaceful  as  a  great  establish- 
ment with  a  good  housekeeper  at  its  head;  no  mean 
economies,  and  yet  nothing  wasted.  Leopold  L  was  a 
housekeeper  both  good  and  wise.  Had  not  his  first 
w^ife.  Princess  Charlotte  of  England,  died,  and  made 
room  for  Victoria  on  the  throne  of  England,  he  might 
have  lounged  his  life  away  as  Prince  Consort,  and 
never  developed  his  talent  for  reigning. 

In  1848,  when  the  ferment  of  French  revolution 
again  stirred  all  Europe,  he  did  a  very  rare  and  won- 
derful thing.  He  put  his  kingship  to  vote  among  his 
subjects,  and  was  triumphantly  elected  to  a  "second 
term." 


A   WOMAN'S   VACATION.  123 


CHAPTER  IX. 

GEBMANY. 

**  Thou  knowest  the  story  of  lier  ring, 
How,  when  the  court  went  back  to  Aix, 
Fastrada  died ;  and  how  the  king 
Sat  watching  by  her,  night  and  day. 
Till,  into  one  of  the  blue  lakes 
That  water  that  delicious  land, 
They  cast  the  ring  drawn  from  her  hand; 
And  the  great  raoftarch  sat  serene 
And  sad  beside  the  fated  shore, 
Nor  left  the  land  forevermore." 

A  MORNING  train  from  Brussels  to  Cologne  gave 
US  two  or  three  afternoon  hours  in  Aix-la-Cha- 
pelle,  or  Aachen,  as  the  Germans  call  it,  where  the  Ger- 
man emperors  were  crowned  for  ages.  Charlemagne 
loved  it  well  even  before  "  Fastrada  died ; "  and  he 
was  buried  there,  sitting  in  a  golden  chair,  clad  in  his 
royal  robes,  and  holding  a  sceptre  in  his  hand. 

The  ancient  chronicles  make  out  Charlemagne  to 
have  been  a  genial  old  fellow,  a  good  friend  to  have  in 
any  century.  He  dabbled  in  literature,  compiling  the 
first  French  grammar,  somewhat  as  Solomon  built  the 
temple  —  for  his  fingei's  were  so  stiff  with  holding  the 
sword  that  he  could  never  learn  to  write,  but  signed 


124  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

his  flecrees  by  dipping  his  sword  hilt  in  ink  and  press- 
ing it  on  the  paper. 

He  had  an  uncommon  love  for  his  daughters,  who 
took  advantage  of  it,  as  daughters  always  do.  His 
English  secretary,  Eberhard,  had  fallen  in  love  with 
one  of  them,  named  Emma,  and  made  secret  visits  to 
her  bower,  climbing  in  through  the  window.  One 
night,  while  the  lovers  held  sweet  converse,  there  was 
a  light  fall  of  snow  in  the  court-yard,  and  the  footsteps 
of  Eberhard  would  be  sure  to  be  tracked  from  Emma's 
window.  Kings'  daughters  were  broad-shouldered  and 
strong  women  in  those  days,  and  Emma  carried  her 
lover  on  her  shoulders,  safe  out  of  harm's  way.  Char- 
lemagne was  sitting  at  a  window  which  overlooked  this 
little  by-play,  and  it  opened  his  fatherly  heart  into  con- 
sent to  their  marriage.  Such  stories,  cropping  out  of 
those  warlike  times,  like  the  white  "edelweiss"  out  of 
sterile  mountain  tops,  show  that  changes  may  come  in 
clothes  and  manners,  but  never  to  the  hearts  of  young 
men  and  maidens. 

Once  in  seven  years,  they  show  to  adoring  crowds  in 
Aix-la-Chapelle  the  dress  that  the  Virgin  wore  when 
Christ  was  born,  and  the  swaddling-bands  of  the  infant. 
These  are  among  the  best-attested  relics  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  church,  having  been  given  by  the  Patriarch 
of  Jerusalem  to  Charlemagne ;  but  if  the  Virgin  was 
the  thrifty  woman,  in  poor  circumstances,  that  I  take 
her  for,  those  clothes  must  have  been  cut  up  for  the 
younger  children  long  before  the  patriarch  was  ever 
heard  of.  They  do  not  show  them  oftener  for  fear  of 
wearing  them  out.  Many  cures  have  been  wrought  by 
merely  touching   this  blessed   trash,     I  suppose   the 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  125 

•  elderly  priests  become  so  used  to  playing  their  parts  in 
these  little  Romish  theatricals,  that  it  is  second  nature ; 
but  the  younger  ones  must  suflfer  torture  from  sup- 
pressed laughter  when  they  hold  up  these  sacred  rags 
for  the  adoration  of  the  crowd.  It  is  said  the  Roman 
augurs  could  not  perform  their  rites  in  their  own  com- 
pany, because  they  laughed  in  each  other's  faces ;  and 
nothing  makes  the  Catholic  mummeries  respectable  but 
the  vast  numbers  who  believe  in  them.  A  small  and 
persecuted  sect,  who  cherished  such  nonsense  in  its 
midst,  would  be  borne  down  and  wiped  out  by  the  de- 
rision of  all  the  world. 

Cologne  comes  from  the  Roman  name  "colonia;" 
and  if  cleanliness  be  next  to  godliness,  it  is  very  far  off 
from  both.  The  beauty  of  its  cathedral  gives  credit 
to  the  diabolical  legend  that  hangs  about  it.  It  is  said 
the  architect  sold  his  soul  to  Satan  for  the  plan  of  the 
church ;  but  he  took  so  much  time  in  building  it,  that 
his  creditor  waxed  impatient,  and  claimed  his  due  be- 
fore the  work  was  done ;  so  that  the  cathedral,  begun 
in  1248,  has  never  been,  and  can  never  be  finished.  A 
more  practical  reason  is,  that  there  has  never  been 
money  enough  forthcoming  for  the  purpose.  "  Church 
work  is  slow  —  church  work  is  slow,"  said  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  cloisters  are  too  low  for  the 
nave,  thus  making  a  certain  disproportion ;  but  I  verily 
believe  there  are  people  who  would  carp  at  the  "golden 
streets,"  because  they  were  not  paved  with  dianK)nds. 

One  could  half  believe  that  it  came  straight  from 
heaven  as  a  free  gifl  to  worshipping  souls,  if  the  smell 
of  candles,  and  the  tawdry  images  of  the  Virgin  dressed 


126  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

« 
up  with  spangles,  did  not  prove  it  a  very  human  piece 
of  work  after  all.  In  the  heart  of  it  is  a  little  jewelry 
shop,  otherwise  the  golden  shrine  of  the  "Three  Kings,'* 
or  Magi,  "  Caspar,  Melchior,  and  Baltasar,"  who  came 
to  worship  the  infant  Jesus,  bringing  frankincense  and 
myrrh. 

The  skeletons  were  brought  from  the  East  by  the 
Empress  Helena,  mother  of  Constantine.  The  skulls 
are  bound  with  diamonds,  and  the  whole  shrine  is  stud- 
ded thick  with  glowing  rubies,  and  sapphires,  and  all 
manner  of  precious  stones.  It  must  forever  touch  the 
feminine  heart  to  see  such  glorious  things  wasted  on  a 
box  of  bones  (which  may  have  belonged  to  three  Arab 
camel-drivers),  when  they  might  be  wrought  into  brace- 
lets and  necklaces.  The  treasury  is  rich  in  jewelled 
crosses,  and  gold  vases,  used  in  rare  ecclesiastical  pa- 
geants. A  little  box  studded  with  great  pearls,  which, 
one  can  see  with  half  an  eye,  were  intended  by  nature 
for  ear-rings,  holds  a  thorn  of  the  true  crown ;  but  the 
choicest  things  in  the  collection  are  two  links  of  the 
chain  that  bound  St.  Peter  at  Jerusalem  when  the 
angel  released  him  out  of  prison.  They  do  not  tell 
you  (perhaps  heretics  are  unworthy  to  hear  it)  whether 
the  angel  or  St.  Peter  himself  preserved  them  as  a 
souvenir  of  his  deliverance. 

In  a  little  chapel  behind  the  high  altar  is  a  picture 
of  the  adoration  of  the  Magi,  so  old  that  no  man  can 
guess  at  the  name  of  the  artist;  but  still  so  beaming 
with  genius,  that  his  name  ought  to  be  a  household 
word.  Goethe  called  it  "the  axis  of  the  arts;"  but  I 
hope  my  readers  will  know  better  than  I  do  what  he 
meant  by  it. 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION,  127 

Through  many  narrow  streets,  like  a  network  of 
sewers,  with  a  new  smell  waiting  for  us  at  every  cor- 
ner, we  sought  the  Church  of  St.  Ursula,  that  luckless 
Scottish  princess,  who,  returning  from  her  pilgrimage 
to  Rome,  with  a  modest  train  of  eleven  thousand  vir- 
gins, was  here  set  upon  and  slain  by  the  heathen  Huns. 

The  legend  is  that,  while  high  mass  was  being  cele- 
brated by  the  Archbishop  of  Cologne,  a  white  dove 
flew  down  three  times  to  one  spot,  and  when  the 
ground  was  opened,  the  bones  of  a  great  multitude 
were  found,  with  inscriptions  showing  sufficiently  to 
devout  minds  that  they  were  the  remains  of  St.  Ui'sula 
and  her  train.  These  bones  are  now  an*anged  inside 
the  walls  of  her  church,  two  feet  deep,  and  may  be 
reverently  peeped  at  through  small  gratings. 

In  stiff  old  pictures,  St.  Ursula  and  her  betrothed 
walk  hand  in  hand  along  a  river  bank  strewn  with 
heads  and  arms,  cut  off  by  the  Huns,  and  they  are 
themselves  skewered  by  two  heathen  swords;  but 
being  together  and  true  lovers,  they  don't  seem  to  no- 
tice such  small  inconveniences  in  the  least ;  let  a  picture 
be  ever  so  stiff  and  ill-painted,  this  bit  of  love  and  pa- 
thos would  condone  it! 

Sceptical  Protestants  dare  to  laugh  at  this  sweet  old 
story,  because  some  of  the  bones  are  those  of  men,  and 
others  of  animals;  but  the  legend  expressly  says  that 
some  of  the  train  were  soldiers;  the  word  virgin  has 
no  gender,  and  St.  Paul  made  no  distinction.  Sir  Gala- 
had was  a  "maiden  knight"  — 

**  I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love. 
Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine, 
So  keep  I  fair  through  faitli  and  prayer, 
A  i\.(jirt  IicMit  ii^  worl:  :m(l  ulil." 


128  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

Touching  the  bones  of  animals  found  with  the  others, 
many  of  the  elderly  virgins  may  have  had  lap-dogs. 
So  pretty  and  sad  a  story  ought  not  to  be  wiped  out 
of  history  for  want  of  a  trifle  of  probability. 

In  a  little  room,  that  one  enters  for  a  sixpence,  the 
bones  are  artistically  arranged  in  all  sorts  of  figures 
and  arabesques,  and  rows  of  skulls  are  set  on  shelves, 
done  up  in  red  needle-work,  as  if  every  virgin  of  them 
had  died  of  the  toothache.  Here,  too,  is  one  of  the 
identical  jars  in  which  water  was  turned  into  wine,  at 
the  marriage  in  Cana  of  Galilee.  It  is  of  alabaster, 
much  stained  and  battered,  as  anything  or  anybody 
naturally  would  be,  after  being  knocked  about  for 
eighteen  hundred  years.  There  are  some  old  boxes  of 
trinkets,  beads,  and  the  like,  found  with  the  bones,  and 
a  tooth  belonging  to  St.  Apollonia.  Being  a  hollow 
one,  she  was  well  rid  of  it. 

If  I  made  any  distant  allusion  to  any  of  the  seventy- 
two  smells  which  Coleridge  counted  in  Cologne,  in  the 
hearing  of  our  guide,  he  always  muttered  something 
about  its  being  a  Roman  city,  as  if  that  august  people 
had  left  all  these  evil  odors  behind  them,  when  they 
declined  and  fell.  Many  sins  have  been  laid  to  their 
charge,  but  none  so  heinous  as  this.  This  guide  pro- 
fessed to  speak  English,  but  he  very  appropriately  pro- 
nounced it  "anguish."  It  was  anguish  to  hear  him. 
It  is  an  instance  of  the  law  of  compensation,  and  also 
of  the  meeting  of  extremes,  that  in  this  tainted  city  is 
to  be  found  the  true  Farina  cologne.  There  are  about 
forty  shops,  each  one  of  which  is  the  sole  and  only 
place  where  it  is  sold.  Johann  Maria,  himself,  pro- 
fessed to  live  at  "  No.  4  Inlichplatz ; "  and  so  sinister 


<4 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION,  129 

was  the  droop  in  his  left  eye,  as  he  surveyed  our  sevea 
innocent'countenances,  that  we  were  fain  to  take  what- 
ever he  gave  us,  asking  no  questions. 

After  a  reeking  forenoon  in  Cologne,  it  was  like  "  the 
shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land"  to  find  our- 
selves on  a  steamer  on  the  Rhine,  that  "exulting  and 
abounding  river,"  which  Germans  love  so  well  that 
they  name  it  "Father  Rhine."  Tourists  who  think  they 
waste  time  if  they  are  not  always  seeing  something,  usu- 
ally make  the  journey  by  rail  to  Bonn,  and  take  boat  there, 
as  the  scenery  called  "^?ie"  does  not  begin  till  one  has 
passed  that  place ;  but  they  make  a  great  mistake. 

An  afternoon  of  plain  sailing,  with  a  cool  wind  blow- 
ing in  my  face,  gave  my  strained  enthusiasm  time  to 
rest  after  the  glories  of  Cologne  Cathedral.     It  was        >i 
eager  as  ever  when  we  landed  at  the  little  village  of         "" 
Koenigswinter,  and  challenged  the  first  sentinel  of  the 
enchanted  garden  of  the  Rhine,  the  "  castled  crag  of 

Drachenfels." 

« 

We  took  refuge  from  the  white  glare  of  heat  in  the 
first  hotel  we  could  find ;  but  the  place  of  places  to  S 
spend  the  night,  and  see  the  sun  rise,  is  at  a  little  "^ 
bird's  nest  of  an  inn  on  the  crag  itself.  The  royal  way 
of  ascent  is  by  carriage ;  but  for  an  equal  measure  of  ^ 
hard  work  and  pure  fun,  there  is  nothing  like  a  donkey-  j  J; 
ride,  and  the  total  depravity  of  a  donkey-boy.  ^ 

The  view  from  the  Drachenfels  (dragon-rock)  is  not  c^ 
so  rarely  beautiftil  as  from  others  of  the  Rhine  heights; 
but  to  us' it  was  the  first,  and  the  first  draught  of  delight 
is  always  the  sweetest.  .  The  first  child,  to  a  mother,  is 
always  the  handsomest,  and  one's  first  love  can  never 
be  improved  upon.  •--' 

9 


130  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

Travellers  often  go  down  the  Rhine,  beginning  with 
Its  heights,  and  following  it  until  it  flattens  into  Dutch 
placidity;  but  w^e  began  at  the  lowest  step,  and  went 
up  the  stairs  of  its  beauty  till  our  last  look  was  in  the 
face  of  its  perfection.  It  was  old  Plato's  notion  that, 
when  one  was  moved  by  loveliness,  the  wings  of  the 
soul  begin  to  swell;  and  yet  the  ancient  owners  of  this 
castle  founded  on  a  rock  had  no  corner  in  their  souls 
that  swelled  for  anything  but  plunder.  The  fields  that 
used  to  smoke  under  their  ravages,  now  stretch  away 
in  little  right-angled  patches  of  many-shaded  green.  It 
has  reminded  some  one  of  a  patchwork  bed-quilt ;  but 
to  me  it  was  like  a  vast  mosaic  of  green  stones,  emerald, 
and  chrysoprase,  and  beryl,  with  now  and  then  a  sere 
and  yellow  agate. 

In  pagan  days  a  horrible  dragon,  breathing  fire  and 
smoke,  lived  on  the  Drachenfels  (one  sees  his  cave, 
coming  up),  to  whose  rapacity  the  people  offered  hu- 
man victims.  A  young  girl,  whose  beauty  had  made  a 
quarrel  between  two  knights,  was  offered  to  the  dragon 
by  way  of  settling  the  matter.  As  she  was  tied  trem- 
bling to  a  tree,  and  the  dragon  rushed  at  her,  she  held 
up  a  crucifix,  which  so  affrighted  him,  that,  with  a  great 
hissing,  he  plunged  over  the  precipice,  and  so  made  an 
end  of  himself. 

This  miracle  made  good  Christians  of  all  the  heathen 
in  the  neighborhood ;  and  whether  the  girl  married  one 
or  both  of  the  knights  the  legend  saith  not.  We  man- 
age these  things  better  in  the  nineteenth  century. 

Two  maidens  are  prone  to  quarrel  over  one  knight, 
who  straightway  marries  another  woman,  who  does  not 
love  him,  but  wants  a  home,  so  that  it  is  the  man  who 
is  given  to  the  dragon  after  all. 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  131 

The  Drachenfels  is  a  spur  of  the  Siebcngebirge,  or 
"  Seven  Mountains,"  which  were  the  scene  of  the  Nie- 
belungenlied  —  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  of  Germany.  It 
is  a  vast  mine  of  poetry  only  partially  \vorked.  /  Wil- 
liam Morris,  in  his  Earthly  Paradise,  has  sunk  the 
Latest  shaft  in  it.  The  story  of  the  '•Niebelungen,"  in 
very  short  hand,  is  somewhat  like  this.  Seigfried,  the 
hero,  kills  a  dragon ;  and,  being  bathed  in  its  blood,  is 
rendered  invulnerable  except  in  one  small  spot  on  liis 
back,  where  a  leaf  fell  during  the  bath.  He  marries 
Chrimhilde,  fairest  among  women,  and  having  gone 
over,  body  and  soul,  to  his  wife's  family,  as  most  men 
do  who  love  their  waives,  he  goes  wuth  Gunther,  his 
brother-in-law,  to  Iceland,  to  help  him  court  a  princess 
called  Brunehaut.  This  young  woman  is  one  of  the 
strong-minded  women  of  that  period,  and  will  marry 
no  one  who  cannot  overcome  her  in  single  combat. 
She  has  slain  many  suitors,  but  Seigfried  puts  on  his 
magic  cap,  which  makes  him  invisible,  and  gives  him 
the  strength  of  twelve  men ;  with  liis  aid  Gunther  gets 
the  victory  and  marries  the  princess.  But  Bruneliaut 
has  not  got  over  the  love  of  fighting;  and  when  she 
has  only  her  husband  to  deal  with,  easily  binds  him 
with  cords,  and  hangs  him  on  a  nail  against  the  wall. 

Gunther  must  have  been  greatly  more  or  less  than  a 
man  and  a  descendant  of  Adam,  if  he  did  not  make 
haste  to  lay  the  blame  of  Brunehaut's  first  defeat  on 
Seigfried. 

^y  way  of  retaliation  Brunehaut  bribes  an  old  war- 
rior named  Hagen,  who  is  in  Chrimhilde's  confidence, 
to  find  out  from  her  where  Seigfried  is  vulnerable. 
On  the  plea  of  guarding  him  from  all  perils,  Hagen  per- 


132  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

suades  Cbrimhilde  to  embroider  a  leaf  on  liis  doublet 
over  the  fatal  spot.  Then  Hagen  seizes  his  opportu- 
nity, when  Seigfried  is  stooping  to  drink  at  a  spring, 
and  plunges  a  dagger  through  the  leaf.  Tlie  widowed 
Chrinihilde  now  gives  her  v^ays  and  nights  to  revenge^ 
and  finally  marries  the  king  of  the  Huns  on  condition 
of  I  lis  assisting  her  in  her  great  object.  After  years  of 
wailing,  Gunther  and  Brunehaut  (who  has  been  some- 
what "weeded  of  her  folly"),  Ilagen,  and  all  her  fol- 
lowers, come  to  make  Chrinihilde  a  friendly  visit,  and 
the  poem  ends  with  a  grand  slaughter  of  all  concerned. 
The  moral  of  all  this  seems  to  be  (though  it  is  not  set 
down  in  the  book),  that  no  ^vise  man  will  ever  let  his 
wife  know  where  his  weak  spot  is. 

A  little  below  the  Drachenfels  is  the  castle  of  Ro- 
landseck  and  the  island  convent  of  Nonnenworth,  held 
together  by  the  airy  bridge  of  a  little  love  story,  sad  as 
it  is  sweet. 

Roland  fell  in  love  w^ith  the  fair  Hildegunde,  but  this 
did  not  hinder  his  going  to  the  wars.  News  came  of 
his  death,  and  the  maiden  fled,  in  ber  despair,  to  the 
convent  of  Nonnenworth.  The  day  after  she  had 
taken  the  veil,  Roland  returned  safe  and  well,  and 
afterwards  wasted  his  life  in  watching  the  convent  be- 
low his  tower,  that  hid  his  treasure. 

"  Gazing  downward  to  the  convent, 
Hour  on  hour  he  passed, 
Watching  still  his  lady's  lattice, 
Till  it  oped  at  last." 

One  day  be  saw  a  funeral  procession  wind  among 
the  trees  of  the  island,  and  the  sixth  sense  —  that  only 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION'.  133 

lovers  have  —  told  him  that  Hildeguncle  was  dead,  and 
his  watching  was  soon  over. 

**  There  a  corse  they  found  him  sitting 
Once  when  day  returned ; 
Still  liis  pale  aiui  placid  features 
To  the  lattice  turned." 

This  story  demonstrates  the  superior  comfort  of  the 
Protestant  way  of  living  and  thinking.  If  Hildegunde 
had  had  no  convent  to  flee  to,  in  her  despair  she  would 
have  wrung  her  hands  and  torn  her  liair  in  her  lather's 
house  until  Roland  came  home;  and  it'  he  had  never 
returned,  the  worst  that  would  have  befallen  her  woukl 
have  been  to  be  an  old  maid,  and  bring  up  her  nieces 
and  nephews.  It  was  a  sorrowful  choice  of  evils  those 
Catholic  maidens  had,  in  the  middle  ages,  to  marry  or 
to  go  into  a  convent.  It  is  not  the  least  of  the  bless- 
ings of  Protestantism,  that  it  opened  another  road  for 
women  to  travel  in,  if  they  prefer  it. 

As  we  sail  past  Oberwinter,  the  "Seven  Mountains" 
pose  themselves  for  one  long  picture  — 

**  A  blending  of  all  beauties,  streams,  and  dells, 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  cornfield,  mountain,  vine." 

The  Rhine  has  set  up  an  altar  there  on  which  to  offer 
his  first  fruits. 

Farther  up  is  the  ruined  castle  of  Hammerstein, 
named  from  Charles  Martel,  the  Hammer.  Henry  IV. 
of  Germany  made  a  great  fight  against  that  most  over- 
beaiing  of  popes,  Gregory  VII. ;  and  when  he  brought 
himself  to  ask  forgiveness,  he  was  kept  waiting  three 
days,  clothed  in  sackcloth,  before  he  received  it.  This 
was  overdoing  it,  according  to  papal  habit  in  all  ages; 


v_ 


134  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

the  war  broke  out  again,  and  Henry  took  refuge  and 
long  held  out  against  bis  enemies  in  this  now  roofless 
castle  of  Haramerstein. 

Andernach  has  a  tall  watcb-tower  and  a  volcanic 
foundation.  The  people  live  by  their  quarries,  one  of 
which  gives  millstones;  another,  the  water  cement  used 
by  the  Dutch  to  give  solidity  to  their  dikes;  and  a 
third,  a  stone  for  coffins,  which  absorbs  the  moisture  of 
the  body.  The  Romans  called  these  coffins  "  sarcoph- 
agi," flesh-consumers. 

Neuwied  has  a  look  of  home  with  its  clean  white- 
painted  houses.  The  Moravian  Brethren  have  settled 
here  in  great  numbers ;  they  live  somewhat  after  the 
fashion  of  Shakers  in  America,  except  (a  great  except) 
that  marriage  is  permitted,  and,  on  withdrawal,  two 
years'  frugal  support  is  allowed;  a  member  is  never 
received  a  second  time ;  under  this  rule,  it  is  almost 
unheard  of  in  the  history  of  the  community  that  any 
one  should  leave  them. 

They  have  a  curious  and  fascinating  custom  of  draw- 
ing lots  in  any  emergency,  and  trusting  to  Providence 
for  the  event.  1  suppose  it  meets  that  yearning  for 
moral  stimulant  which  other  people  satisfy  with  gam- 
bling. Not  far  from  Neuvvied  is  the  monument  to 
Hoche,  a  young  French  general,  who  was  thought  to 
show  more  promise  than  Napoleon  himself.  Byron 
wrote  for  him  the  most  perfect  of  epitaphs,  — 

**  His  mourners  were  two  hosts  —  his  friends  and  foes," — 

unless  that  to  Marceau,  also  buried  on  the  Rhine  shore, 

may  rival  it,  — 

"  He  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  wept  for  him." 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  135 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    RHINE. 

• 

**  O,  the  pride  of  the  German  heart  in  this  noble  river !  By 
Heavens,  if  I  were  a  German,  I  would  be  proud  of  it,  too ;  and  of 
the  clustering  grapes  that  hang  about  its  temples  as  it  reels  on- 
ward through  vineyards,  in  a  triumphant  march,  like  Bacchus, 
crowned  and  drunken. " —  Longfellow's  Hyperion, 

IT  was  on  the  Rhine  steamer,  after  leaving  Cologne, 
that  our  St.  Ursula  fell  among  thieves,  worse 
heathen  than  their  ancestors,  who  were  satisfied 
with  taking  life ;  but  these  modern  Huns  would  have 
our  money,  too.  They  never  knew  when  they  had 
been  fairly  paid ;  and  when  St.  Ursula  would  have  en- 
lightened them  in  plain  English,  and  good  French,  and 
scholarly  German  (I  am  not  sure  that  she  did  not 
try  them  with  "small  Latin  and  less  Greek"),  they 
fell  back  on  stupidity  and  Low  Dutch ;  and  yet  these 
same  men,  when  she  ordered  anything  to  eat,  were 
perfect  polyglots  of  language.  The  story  of  the  build- 
ing of  Babel  is  a  mythical  matter  at  home,  but  in  Eu- 
rope, where  good  English  scolding  is  a  waste  of  breath, 
it  seems  an  affair  of  yesterday  when  every  man  asked 
his  neighbor  for  a  hammer  or  a  nail,  and  found  no  one 
to  understand  him. 


136  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

In  Dr.  Rimmer's  picture  of  the  master  builder  of  the 
Tower  of  Babel,  which  once  sounded  so  outlandish, 
the  traveller  in  Germany  descries  a  man  and  a  brother. 

German  money  is  a  conundrum  that  one  may  as  well 
give  up,  to  begin  with.  Heine  said  it  was  a  great  help 
to  an  education  to  be  born  to  those  nouns  that  make 
their  accusative  in  wm,  and  the  same  thing  applies  to 
the  groschen  and  kroitzers  of  his  national  money.  In 
one  province  a  groschen  is  three  cents,  in  another 
more,  and  in  another  less ;  that  is,  a  groschen  is  not  al- 
ways a  groschen,  and  great  quantities  of  small  coin  are 
just  nickel  buttons,  with  no  inscription  at  all.  It  takes 
the  faith  that  will  remove  mountains  to  believe  that 
they  have  any  value. 

The  buyer  may  say,  "  It  is  naught,  it  is  naught,"  but 
travellers  must  go  by  what  the  seller  says,  and  the  sell- 
er is  sure  to  cheat  in  giving  change.  The  only  remedy 
is  to  spend  as  little  as  possible  on  German  soil.  The 
careful  phrases  culled  out  of  German  grammars  are  of 
very  little  use  in  withstanding  or  understanding  the 
villanous  patois  spoken  by  guides  and  porters. 

Our  second  day  on  the  Rhine  landed  us  at  Coblentz. 
One  does  not  need  to  be  told  that  the  name  comes 
from  the  Latin  word  "confluentia,"  the  confluence  of 
the  Rhine  and  the  "blue  Moselle."  Every  wind  that 
blows  over  it  tells  us  that  the  Romans  have  been  there 
before  us.  There  is  no  need  of  olfactory  nerves  in 
these  old  walled  towns.  A  little  girl  once  said  she 
^'' heard  a  smell;"  and  you  can  Aear,- and  taste^  and 
almost  8ee  those  evil  odors. 

When  Dr.  Wayland  laid  down  the  law  that  you 
could  not  imagine  a  smell,  he  meant  those  of  Cologne 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  137 

and  Coblentz.  The  Queen  of  Prussia  has  a  palace 
there,  and  the  "Queen's  Gardens  "  make  a  fringe  of 
loveliness  along  the  river  bank.  On  the  way,  the 
coachman  shows  you  a  stone  sarcasm,  in  the  shape  of  a 
piHar,  erected  before  the  disastrous  Russian  campaign 
of  Napoleon,  with  an  inscription  in  which  French  suc- 
cess is  taken  for  granted.  When  the  Napoleonic  tide 
turned  the  wrong  way  in  this  very  campaign,  —  for  Fate 
does  not  like  being  anticipated,  —  the  Russian  com- 
mandant of  Coblentz  let  the  pillar  stand,  merely  adding 
to  the  inscription  a  "  Seen  and  approved,"  with  his 
signature,  as  if  he  had  vised  a  passport.  Everybody 
crosses  the  bridge  of  boats  to  visit  Ehrenbreitstein, 
"  the  broad  stone  of  honor,"  the  Gibraltar  of  Germany. 
Nature  and  men  have  worked  together  to  make  it 
the  most  tremendous  scowl  that  the  face  of  one  coun- 
try can  wear  towards  another.  It  has  seen  worse  days, 
but  never  better  ones  than  now.  The  French  had  pos- 
session of  it  once, 

**  And  laid  those  proud  roofs  bare  to  summer  rain, 
On  which  the  iron  shower  had  poured  in  vain." 

The  garrison  can  only  be  reduced  by  starvation,  and 
it  once  held  out  so  long  that  cat  flesh  was  twenty-five 
cents  a  pound.  The  dungeons  and  other  secrets  of 
the  fortress  used  to  open  to  a  fee;  but  since  the  last 
war  nothing  is  shown  for  love  or  money,  except  the 
view  from  the  battlements.  French  eyes  are  now  so 
sharpened  by  wrath  and  shame,  that  they  would  al- 
most penetrate  a  stone  wall  to  find  out  a  weak  spot  in 
this  rock  of  defence. 


138  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

The  German  soklicrs  seem  rather  small  men,  but 
well-built  and  miraculously  drilled,  with  more  intelli- 
gent faces  than  one  sees  in  the  English  army.  A 
little  below  Coblentz  is  Stolzenfels  (proud  rock).  The 
Coblentzers  long  offered  it  for  sale  for  seventy  thalers, 
and  finally  made  a  present  of  it  to  the  crown  prince, 
who  restored  it  to  its  first  estate.  The  great  paint- 
ing on  the  outside,  visible  from  the  steamer,  chronicles 
the  visit  of  an  English  princess,  who  was  entertained 
there.  One  of  its  wings  was  long  inhabited  by  a  party 
of  alchemists,  who  sought  for  the  philosopher's  stone, 
and  the  elixir  of  life,  long  after  other  people  had  given 
them  up  for  lost.  After  this,  villages  lie  "  thick  as 
leaves  in  Vallombrosa"  along  the  edge  of  the  river^ 
pleasant  places  to  be  buried  in. 

Every  one  has  its  castle  and  its  legend  of  the  lovely 
maiden,  whom  somebody  loved  or  did  not  love;  the 
end  is  sure  to  be  tragic  enough  in  either  case.  Long- 
fellow has  told  the  story  of  "The  Brothers"  Sternberg 
and  Liebenstein,  in  Hyperion.  It  sings  itself  in  the 
mind  like  an  old  ballad. 

Rheinfels  is  the  most  imposing  ruin  on  the  river,  but 
not  the  most  graceful  or  romantic.  In  1692  a  French 
marshal  promised  it  to  Louis  XIV.  for  a  Christmas 
present ;  but  this  old  French  brag,  like  many  later  ones, 
came  to  nothing. 

Then  comes  the  rock  of  the  "  Lorelei,"  four  hundred 
and  forty-seven  feet  high,  the  old  home  of  a  siren,  with 
a  star  on  her  forehead  and  a  harp  in  her  hand,  who 
lured  men  to  destruction  in  her  whirlpool,  and  then 
chanted  their  death-son ^. 

The  rock  was  said,  in  the  old  time,  to  echo  fifteen 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  139 

times ;  bnt  men  are  grown  hard  to  lm*e,  and  the  Lorelei 
is  tired  of  it:  her  rock  now  sends  back  but  one  echo. 
It  has  been  tunnelled,  too,  by  the  railroad  ;  even  "Ma- 
riana" would  have  found  it  hard  work  to  be  romantic 
in  the  "  moated  grange,"  if  a  train  of  cars  had  passed 
through  the  cellar  of  it.  Hood  says  the  echo  is  now, 
"Take  care  of  your  pocket ;  take  care  of  your  pocket." 
Oberweisel,  the  Roman  Vesalia,  is  said  to  be  a  pleas- 
ant place  to  lose  a  day  in,  if  one  has  them  in  plenty. 
The'  castle  of  Schoenberg  crowns  it,  and  in  the  river  at 
its  feet  are  groups  of  rocks  called  the  "  Seven  Sisters." 
Some  one  has  put  the  legend  into  lively  verses,  in  this 
wise :  — 

**  The  castle  of  Schoenberg  was  lofty  and  fair, 
And  seven  countesses  ruled  there ; 
Lovely,  and  noble,  and  wealthy,  I  trow; 
Every  sister  had  suitors  enow. 
Crowned  duke  and  belted  knight 
Sighed  at  the  feet  of  these  ladies  bright; 
And  they  whispered  hope  to  every  one, 
While  they  vowed  in  their  hearts  they  would  have  none. 

Gentles,  list  to  the  tale  I  tell ; 
'Tis  many  a  year  since  this  befell ; 
Women  are  altered  now,  I  ween. 
And  never  say  what  they  do  not  mean. 

At  the  castle  of  Schoenberg,  'twas  merriment  all ; 
There  was  dancing  in  bower,  and  feasting  in  hall ; 
They  ran  at  the  ring  in  the  tilt-yard  gay. 
And  the  moments  flew  faster  than  thought  away; 
But  not  only  moments,  —  the  days  fled  too. 
And  they  were  but  as  when  the  first  came  to  woo; 
And  spoke  they  of  marriage  or  bliss  deferred. 
They  were  silenced  by  laughter  and  scornful  word. 


140  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

Gentles,  list  to  the  tale  I  tell; 
*Tis  many  a  year  since  this  befell ; 
And  ladies  now  so  mildly  reign, 
They  never  sport  with  a  lover's  pain. 

Knight  looked  upon  knight  with  an  evil  eye ; 
Each  fancied  a  favored  rival  nigh; 
And  darker  every  day  they  frowned, 
And  sharper  still  the  taunt  went  round, 
Till  swords  were  drawn,  and  lance  in  rest, 
And  the  blood  ran  down  from  each  noble  breast; 
While  the  sisters  sat  in  their  chairs  of  gold. 
And  smiled  at  the  fall  of  their  champions  bold. 

Gentles,  list  to  the  tale  I  tell ; 
'Tis  many  a  year  since  this  befell ; 
Times  have  changed,  we  must  allow  ^ 
Countesses  are  not  so  cruel  now. 

Morning  dawned  on  Schoenberg's  towers, 

But  the  sisters  were  not  in  their  wonted  bowers ; 

Their  damsels  sought  them  the  castle  o'er, 

But  upon  earth  they  were  seen  no  more. 

Seven  rocks  are  in  the  tide, 

Oberweisel's  walls  beside, 

Baring  their  cold  brows  to  heaven  : 

They  are  called  *  The  Sisters  Seven.' 

Gentles,  list  to  the  tale  I  tell ; 
*Tis  many  a  year  since  this  befell ; 
And  ladies  now  may  love  deride. 
And  their  suitors  alone  be  petrified." 

The  Falz,  a  castle  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  stands 
like  a  sentinel  with  presented  arms.  It  was  built  to 
challenge  and  demand  tribute  of  every  boat  that 
passed  it. 

It  was  an  old  custom  that  the  wives  of  the  Counts 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION,  141 

Palatine  must  pass  some  time  in  this  castle,  previous 
to  becoming  mothers.  The  reason  for  this  custom  it 
is  difficult  to  fathom,  unless  there  were  not  wars  and 
rumors  of  wars  enough  to  keep  up  their  spirits  in  their 
mountain  castles. 

Near  Bacharach  is  a  rock  that  is  only  seen  when 
the  river  is  very  low.  The  peasants  hold  a  high  fes- 
tival when  it  appears,  for  it  is  the  unfailing  signal  of 
a  noble  vintage  on  that  year. 

**  At  Bacharach,  on  tlie  Rhine, 
At  Hochheim,  on  tlie  Main, 
And  at  Wurzberg,  on  the  Stein, 
Grow  the  three  best  kinds  of  wine." 

We  are  now  among  the  old  robber  castles,  thirty^ 
ttco  of  which  used  to  demand  tribute  of  every  passing 
boat.  A  mercliant  of  those  days  must  have  been  a 
man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with  grief.  On  a  lit- 
tle green  island  that  the  steamer  turns  out  for,  stands 
the  "Mouse  Tower."  An  inhuman  bishop,  named 
Hatto,  bought  up  all  the  wheat,  in  order  to  sell  it 
dear,  and  w^hen  the  people  complained,  he  enticed 
them  into  a  barn,  and  burnt  them  up, 

"I*  faith,  *tis  an  excellent  bonfire,"  quoth  he, 
**  And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me, 
For  ridding  it  in  these  times  forlorn, 
Of  rats  that  only  consume  the  corn." 

But  out  of  the  ashes  of  his  victims  came  swarms 
of  rats,  that  chased  him  from  one  place  to  another,  un- 
til he  fled  to  an  island  in  the  Rhine,  and  built  the 
Mouse  Tower;  but  the  rats  swam  over  after  him. 


142  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

**  Down  on  his  knees  the  bishop  fell, 
And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  tell, 
As  louder  and  louder,  drawing  near. 
The  saw  of  their  teeth  without  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  inat  the  door, 

And  through  the  walls  in  thousands  they  pour, 

And  down  through  the  ceiling,  and  up  through  the  floor, 

From  the  right  and  left,  from  behind  and  before. 

From  within  and  without,  from  above  and  below, 

And  all  at  once  to  the  bishop  they  go. 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the  stones. 
And  now  they  pick  the  bishop's  bones ; 
They  gnawed  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him." 

At  Bin  gen  the  river  is  supposed  to  have  broken 
the  mountain  chain  that  once  bound  it,  as  there  are 
signs  that  it  was  once  a  great  lake,  stretching  even 
to  Basle.  Poetry  has  made  Bingen  famous,  with  its 
poor  soldier  dying  in  Algiers.  It  is  one  of  the  "  oldest 
inhabitants"  of  reading  books.  After  Bingen,  the  vil- 
lages grow  rare,  and  the  hills  more  steep,  but  the  vine- 
yards never  cease.  They  date  back  to  Charlemagne, 
who  found  that  the  snow  melted  sooner  on  these  hill- 
sides than  anywhere  else.  There  is  a  legend  that  his 
favorite  vineyards  were  at  Winkel,  and  that  he  visits 
them  once  every  year,  and  blesses  them. 

**  And  then  from  the  home  that  he  still  loves  so  well,- 
He  returns  to  the  tomb  that's  in  Aix-la-Chapelle, 
There  to  slumber  in  peace  till  the  old  year  is  over, 
And  the  vineyards  again  woo  him  back  like  a  lover.** 

The  huge  basaltic  rocks,  that  seem  to  have  grudged 
the  passage  of  the  river,  have  terraces  built  on  their 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION,  143 

steep  sides,  where  only  a  lean  goat  would  care  to  climb, 
and  sometimes  holes  are  blasted  into  them,  that  will 
hold  just  soil  enough  to  nourish  a  vine.  This  soil  is 
carried  up  in  baskets,  chiefly  on  the  backs  of  women; 
and  when  a  hard  rain  washes  it  down,  the  work  has  all 
to  be  done  over  again.  Woman's  work  is  never  done 
anywhere.  These  Rhenish  peasant  women  are  strong, 
straight-limbed  beasts  of  burden,  nothing  more  nor  less. 
Where  all  the  men  are  trained  to  be  soldiers,  all  the 
women  must  perforce  be  slaves.     Byron  will  have  it, 

that  — 

**  Peasant  girls,  with  deep-blue  eyes, 
And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 
Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise." 

They  have  blue  eyes,  it  is  true,  blue  as  turquoises ; 
but  they  are  tanned  a  red  brown  by  the  sun,  and  even 
turquoises  set  in  copper  lose  all  their  beauty.  I  have 
never  seen  a  German  woman  who  would  "  shake  the 
saintship  of  an  anchorite,"  or  of  any  other  man;  but 
travelling  poets  must  be  poetical,  if  truth  is  put  to  the 
sword. 

Bismarck  is  not  a  favorite  with  German  women.  In 
the  late  war  he  made  a  burnt-offering  of  one  hundred 
and  thirty  thousand  soldiers,  and  left  desolate  the  same 
number  of  widows  and  maidens.  A  man  who  takes 
the  responsibility  of  making  old  maids  by  the  hun- 
dred thousand,  must  be  brave  indeed.  Our  landlady 
at  Coblentz,  a  buxom  little  widow,  whose  husband  was 
killed  at  Sedan,  said,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  "  Bis- 
marck will  die  some  time,  please  God ! " 

The  Johannesberg  grapes  are  not  gathered  until  dead 
ripe,  and  those  that  fall  on  the  ground  are  picked  up 


144  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

with  little  wooden  forks,  made  for  the  purpose.  The 
wine  was  not  particularly  famous  until  the  Rothschilds 
got  possession  of  the  vineyard,  and  with  Jewish  acute- 
ness,  sold  only  a  limited  quantity  every  year,  while 
they  hired  clever  pens  to  write  up  its  virtues. 

Near  Mayence  we  met  one  of  those  enormous  rafts  — 
water-villages  —  made  from  the  mountain  timber,  and 
floated  down  to  Holland.  Boatmen  and  their  families, 
cattle  and  fowls,  live  on  them,  sometimes  to  the  num- 
ber of  three  or  four  hundred. 

Mayence  has  a  great  cathedral,  a  favorite  of  fire,  hav- 
ing been  burned  and  restored  six  times;  but  it  is  chiefly 
famous  as  being  the  city  where  Gutenberg  brought  to 
perfection  the  art  that  makes  men  immortal,  and  print- 
ed his  first  Bible.  He  beggared  himself,  and  led  the 
usual  hard  life  of  inventors;  but  after  death  it  was 
made  up  to  him  in  statues. 

I  think  it  was  here  that,  while  one  of  his  Bibles  was 
in  type,  a  woman  substituted  the  word  "narr"  (fool), 
for  "herr"  (lord),  in  the  verse  about  husband  and 
wife,  which  says,  "  And  he  shall  be  her  lord,"  so  that  it 
read,  "and  he  shall  be  her  fool."  I  wonder  if  the  op- 
pressed creature  thought  that  the  Bible's  saying  so 
would  make  it  so.  The  mistake  was  discovered  in 
time,  and  the  woman  came  to  German  grief,  which 
must  be  more  poignant  than  any  other. 

Mayence  was  the  home  of  Frauenlob,  a  Minnesinger, 
who  spent  his  whole  life  in  singing  the  praises  of  wo- 
men, and  when  he  died  his  body  was  borne  to  the 
tomb  by  six  lovely  maidens.  His  motto  was,  "  He  who 
possesses  the  love  of  a  noble  woman  will  hold  all  vice 
iu  scorn." 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  145 

The  Mastersingers  flourished  in  Mayence,  too  —  a 
queer  guild  of  "butchers  and  bakers,  and  candlestick- 
makers,"  who  put  vei*ses  together  over  their  work,  and 
insisted  on  naming  it  poetry.  They  are  to  the  Minne- 
singers as  cuckoos  and  owls  to  nightingales. 

*'  As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too  the  mystic  rhyme. 
And  the   smith  his  iron  measures  hammered  to  the   anviFs 
chime.'* 

We  left  the  Rhine  at  Mayence,  though  we  caught  a 
glimpse  of  it  afterwards  in  Basle.  The  Germans  have 
covered  their  beloved  river  with  poetry,  like  a  misty 
veil,  which  adds  to  its  beauty,  like  a  bit  of  lace  over 
the  face  of  a  fair  woman.  Two  English  prose-poems 
have  been  laid  on  its  shrine,  Longfellow's  Hyperion, 
and  the  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine,  by  Bulwer. 

The  first  is  like  a  bunch  of  sweet-smelling  flowers, 
dewy  and  fresh,  as  if  the  blessing  of  the  morning  were 
still  on  them ;  but  the  latter  is  like  the  same  bunch, 
imitated  afler  the  best  French  method  of  makins:  arti- 
ficial  flowers,  lovely  perhaps,  but  scentless  and  dry. 

It  is  but  an, hour's  journey  fronr  Mayence  to  Frank- 
fort, the  old  capital  of  the  German  empire. 

The  "  Hotel  do  Bruxelle*'  treats  one  perhaps  as  well 
as  one  deserves;  but  the  "Roman  Emperor"  hath  a 
more  royal  way  with  him. 

All  its  old  glories  are  but  the  setting  to  Dannecker's 
"Ariadne  on  the  Panther."  One  enters  a  small  museum 
of  classical  figures,  evidently  sculptured  before  the 
fashion  of  clothes,  or  even  ^g  leaves,  had  ever  been 
heard  of,  a  room  to  make  eveiy  man  and  woman  look 
10 


146  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

in  each  other's  eyes,  as  Adam  and  Eve  did  when  they 
found  themselves  naked,  and  were  ashamed. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  traveller  pene- 
trates as  far  as  Frankfort  without  being  introduced  to 
whole  armies  of  nude  statues ;  but  the  nakedness  of 
these  figures  was  so  aggressive,  that  they  ought  to  have 
been  arrested  by  a  policeman.  The  "Ariadne"  is  by 
herself;  in  a  little  room  with  scarlet  walls,  which  cast  a 
pink  glow  over  her  figure.  She  is  naked,  too,  but  she 
is  so  clothed  upon  with  loveliness,  that  one  no  more 
thinks  of  noticing  it  than  would  the  happy  panther  that 
bears  her.  Ariadne's  story  is  shadowed  forth  in  her 
face. 

She  was  a  king's  daughter,  who  saved  the  Greek 
Theseus  from  danger,  because  she  loved  him.  He  j)er- 
suaded  her  to  elope  with  him,  and  perhaps  she  loved 
him  better  than  the  manly  heart  can  bear,  for  he  soon 
wearied  of  her,  and  when  she  lay  asleep  one  day  on  an 
island,  he  deserted  her.  After  great  despair,  she  suf- 
fered herself,  like  a  sensible  woman,  to  be  comforted 
by  the  god  Bacchus  (which  does  not  mean  that  she 
took  to  drink),  and  hence  comes  the  panther,  which 
was  an  animal  sacred  to  Bacchus. 

The  sculptor  has  wrought  into  her  fjjce  the  expres- 
sion of  a  woman  scorned,  and  yet  triumphant.  She 
has  but  one  desire  more  on  earth,  and  that  is  to  meet 
Theseus  and  cut  him  dead.  The  miniature  Ariadnes, 
in  parian  and  plaster,  that  adorn  American  mantels, 
are  very  decent  copies  of  the  panther,  but  the  real  Ari- 
adne never  leaves  her  rose-tinted  home  in  Frankfort. 

The  hall  of  the  Kaisers,  lined  with  full-length  por- 
traits of  all  the  German  emperors  who  ever  reigned, 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  147 

was  not  a  comfortable  place  to  visit.  One  felt  that  one 
ought  to  know  something  of  ail  those  high  colored  Ot- 
tos and  Ludwigs,  whom  they  married,  or  what  famous 
heads  they  had  cut  off;  but  they  were  all  strangers. 
Only  the  husband  and  father  of  Maria  Theresa  were 
anything  like  old  acquaintances.  In  the  great  street 
of  Frankfort,  called  "  Zeil,"  every  woman  is  on  her 
native  heath.  Her  soul  may  have  swelled  and  budded 
on  the  Rhine,  but  amid  the  ravishing  china  and  dainty 
embroidery  that  line  this  street,  she  is  herself  again. 
Frankfort  is  a  sort  of  outpost  of  Berlin  in  worsted 
work,  and  if  she  wants  to  buy  a  drab-colored  Moses  on 
a  sky-blue  giound,  or  a  shower  of  golden  butterflies 
just  alight  on  a  sofa-pillow,  or  any  other  bit  of  work 
that  is  "  red  with  the  blood  of  murdered  time,"  now  is 
her  opportunity. 

Frankfort  was  the  birthplace  of  Goethe,  the  "many- 
sided  one,"  who  taught  that  virtue  was  one  of  the  fine 
arts,  which  one  might  cultivate  or  not,  as  one  had  time 
or  talent.  The  man  who  wrote  Elective  Affinities 
ought  to  have  been  stoned  to  death  by  his  country- 
women. 


148  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MOEE    GERMANY. 

"  At  intervals  the  wind  of  the  summer  night  passed  through 
the  ruined  castle  and  the  trees,  and  they  sent  forth  a  sound  as  if 
Nature  were  sighing  in  lier  dreams ;  and  tlien  all  was  still  save 
the  sweet,  passionate  song  of  the  nightingales,  that  nowhere  sing 
more  sweetly  than  in  the  gardens  of  Heidelberg  Castle."  —  Long- 
fellow. 

WE  reached  Heidelberg  on  the  eve  of  the  birth- 
day of  its  aged  university,  and  the  town  buzzed 
with  young  people  come  to  celebrate  it,  like  a  hive  of 
bees  about  to  swarm. 

The  ruined  castle,  which  broods  over  the  town  like 
an  anxious  mother  over  her  baby's  crib,  burst  into  a 
blaze  of  red  light  at  ten  o'clock,  which  showed  every 
little  scroll  and  leafy  capital  on  its  carved  front.  It 
renewed  its  princely  and  brilliant  youth,  like  a  gray  old 
actress  suddenly  inspired  by  a  memory  of  early  triumph, 
and  then  it  sank  into  quick  darkness  and  old  age,  and 
all  the  people,  gathered  on  the  river  in  crowds  to  see 
the  glory  of  a  moment,  went  home  to  drink  to  the 
health  of  the  university. 

The  castle  loses  nothing  when  one  climbs  to  it  by 
daylight.     The  view  from  the  battlements  is  a  rest  to 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION,  149 

the  weary,  and  the  hill-side  is  threaded  all  over  with 
shady  paths,  ending  in  dark  little  nooks,  where  an  army 
of  lovers  might  wander  all  night  and  never  hear  of 
each  other. 

This  palace  of  a  castle  was  six  centuries  in  building, 
and  for  some  years  it  was  the  home  of  Elizabeth,  the 
ill-fated  Queen  of  Bohemia,  who  sacrificed  everything 
for  the  empty  title  of  queen,  and  came  to  utter  poverty 
in  her  old  age.  She  was  grand-daughter  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots,  and,  like  most  of  the  Stuarts,  early 
found  herself  on  the  wrong  side  of  fate.  The  noble 
ladies  who  were  borne  into  this  castle  must  have  spent 
their  summer  days  on  the  esplanade,  embroidering  ban- 
ners for  brothers  and  lovers,  and  seeing  every  Sir  Laun- 
celot  that  rode  up  the  river  bank  below  them;  if  they 
were  crossed  in  love,  they  had  only  to  leap  off  the  bat- 
tlements in  the  small  hours  of  the  night,  with  the  cer- 
tainty of  having  their  names  embalmed  forever  in 
German  song  and  story.  With  all  these  materials  for 
happiness,  what  could  a  woman  ask  more? 

The  walls  of  the  castle  are,  in  many  places,  twenty 
feet  thick:  Time  would  have  grown  old  and  lost  his 
teeth  before  he  could  have  gnawed  them  away,  if  he 
had  not  been  assisted  by  French  gunpowder. 

A  guide  is  ready  for  you  and  your  fee,  and  leads  you 
through  a  dusty  labyrinth  of  old  rooms  and  passages, 
while  you  wish  yourself  under  the  trees  of  the  hill-side; 
he  finishes  with  the  "Great  Tun,"  which  held  three  hun- 
dre<l  thousand  bottles  of  wine.  The  journey  through 
the  castle  is  a  snare  and  a  delusion,  and  one  can  see 
the  Great  Tun  at  any  time  with  a  common  hogshead 
and  a  magnifying  glass. 


150  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

The  famous  university  is  a  very  insignificant- cluster 
of  buildings,  as  one  looks  down  at  it  from  the*' Phi- 
losopher's Walk,"  a  long  avenue  planted  with  vine- 
yards, on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river ;  at  the  foot  of 
it  is  an  inn  and  a  court-yard  where  the  students  fight 
their  duels,  and  mar  the  little  beauty  given  them  by 
nature.  Duelling  began  in  the  reign  of  Henry  II.  of 
France,  who  asked  his  courtiers,  impatiently,  "Why 
do  you  come  to  me  for  justice  when  you  wear  that  at 
your  side  with  which  you  can  do  yourselves  justice  ?  " 
whereupon  the  first  challenge  w^as  sent.  Perhaps  a 
Heidelberg  student  will  send  the  last.  The  wrongs  of 
all  dogs  in  other  German  cities  are  here  made  up  to  a 
few;  many  of  the  students  lead  about  very  handsome 
ones,  and  it  is  said  that  after  a  drinking  bout,  the  dogs 
often  lead  their  masters,  being  the  nobler  animal  of 
the  two.  The  university  was  born  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  and  even  in  its  babyhood  had  half  a  thousand 
students,  learning  by  heart  versified  rules  of  grammar, 
and  endless  commentaries,  darkening  wisdom  that  was 
dark  enough  in  the  beginning.  "Truly,  I  do  not  won- 
der," says  Longfellow,  "that  the  pupils  of  Erigena  Sco- 
tus  put  him  to  death  with  their  penknives.  They  must 
have  been  driven  to  the  very  verge  of  despair."  There 
is  a  large  colony  of  young  Americans  at  Heidelberg, 
and  it  is  a  vexed  question  there,  as  everywhere  else, 
whether  women  shall  be  admitted  to  the  benefits  of 
the  university. 

One  young  lady  from  Boston  has  just  gone  through 
a  course  of  ethics  and  philosophy,  the  only  woman 
among  two  hundred  and  fifty  young  men;  her  thirty 
years  and  her  high  aim  (she  destines  herself  for  the 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATIOISr,  151 

practice  of  law)  brought  her  unscathed  through  the 
ordeal. 

Musicnl  instruction  is  excellent  and  cheap,  and  good 
board  maybe  found  for  ^VQ  francs  (a  dollar)  a  day; 
but  it  is  a  place  full  of  soriows  for  a  girl,  who  has  no 
friends  to  receive  and  make  a  backcjround  for  her. 
She  may  come  irom  America,  full  of  hope  and  courage, 
with  her  heart  set  solely  on  a  good  musical  education, 
but  the  weight  of  German  opinion  will  slowly  and 
surely  bear  down  her  good  cheer.  She  has  to  breathe 
air  thick  with  suspicion,  and  in  every  German  girl's 
eyes,  she  reads  the  pharisaic  rejoicing  that  they  are  not 
as  she  is. 

She  may  keep  up  her  spirits  for  awhile  with  a  liearty 
scorn  of  their  prudery,  but  in  the  end,  if  she  cares  for 
society,  she  must  yield  to  its  limitations.  One  young 
American  girl  got  on  very  well  by  always  wearing  a 
wedding  ring,  and  behaving  as  if  she  had  lost  every 
friend  she  had  in  the  world. 

A  lonely  girl  cannot  be  happy  without  being  im- 
proper, at  least  in  the  eyes  of  female  Ileidelbergera; 
and  I  suppose  men  here,  as  at  home,  must  think  as 
their  wives  do.  Women  have  a  silent  legislation  in 
the  realm  of  propriety  none  the  less  binding  that  it  is 
not  found  in  statute-books. 

In  the  slight  glimpses  that  the  traveller  catches  of 
German  family-life  in  the  lower  and  middle  classes, 
w^hich  is,  of  course,  the  majority,  the  wife  is  no  better 
than  his  dog,  nor  nearer  than  his  horse,  to  her  husband. 
He  comes  home  to  eat  and  to  sleep,  speaking  none  but 
necessary  words  to  his  wife,  who  hastens  to  fill  him  up 
with  his  favorite  dishes. 


152  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

To  a  guest  or  a  boarder  he  may  address  a  sentence 
or  two  of  courtesy,  but  never  to  his  wife,  and  then  he 
hurries  away  (if  a  German  ever  hurries)  to  a  beer-gar- 
den to  spend  his  evenings.  He  seems  to  suspect  some- 
thing effeminate  in  an  American,  who  prefers  to  sit 
down  with  his  wife  and  children  at  home. 

A  German  woman's  motto  seems  to  have  been  writ- 
ten for  her  long  ago  by  old  Chaucer :  — 

**  She  saith  not  once  *  nay,'  when  he  saith  *  yea ;  * 
*  Do  this,'  saith  he;   *  All  ready,  sir,'  quoth  she." 

I  say  that  this  is  the  outward  a})pearance  of  German 
family-life;  but  no  one  can  have  studied  womanly  char- 
acter anywhere  without  discovering  that  total  submis- 
sion would  soon  exterminate  the  sex.  Famine  and 
pestilence  would  not  be  so  sure.  To  have  her  own 
way  is  to  a  woman  the  breath  of  life ;  and  it  must  be 
confessed  that  German  women  do  not  look  so  miserable 
as  they  ought.  I  doubt  not  they  have  found  a  way  to 
lead  their  husbands  without  letting  them  see  the  string; 
and  if  one  had  time  to  study  their  back-stairs  politics, 
they  might  not  be  found  to  differ  very  widely  from 
those  of  America. 

Two  hours'  travel  through  a  fertile  country  and 
home-like  villages  lies  between  Heidelberg,  the  place  of 
study,  and  Baden-Baden,  the  place  of  pleasure. 

The  whole  air  of  Baden  is  full  of  rest  and  leisure,  as 
if  no  one  who  came  there  brought  any  shadow  of  work 
or  business  with  him.  Once  it  was  the  scene  of  a 
perpetual  tragedy,  in  which  men  and  women  threw 
away  their  money,  and  their  happiness,  openly  and 
without  shame.     Lookers-on  held  tlieir  breath  as  they 


A   WOMAN'S   VACATION.  153 

would  at  the  racinc:  of  bloorl-horses.  Since  the  cjam- 
bling-houses  have  been  suppressed,  Baden  has  lost  its 
morbid  charm.  It  is  as  if  Lord  Byron,  in  the  height 
of  his  profligacy,  had  "experienced  religion;"  he 
would  still  be  noble,  handsome,  and  poetic,  but  not 
half  so  interesting:. 

The  Conversation-house  and  gardens  are  light  as  day 
every  evening,  and  elegantly-dressed  crowds  walk  up 
and  down,  looking  at  one  another,  and  eating  ices 
under  the  trees,  while  the  air  palpitates  to  the  music 
of  the  Strauss  waltzes.  People  only  kill  time  in  Baden 
now,  not  their  own  souls.  The  place  is  lovely  as  ever, 
a  gem  of  price  set  in  a  circle  still  more  precious  in  the 
shape  of  environs ;  but  nothing  in  natural  scenery  can 
be  so  fascinating  to  men  and  women  as  the  exhibition 
of  their  own  passions. 

A  young  Dutch  lady  travelling  with  us,  for  the  first 
time  out  of  her  own  flat  country,  could  not  And  words 
strong  enough,  in  her  scanty  English,  to  convince  us  of 
its  dcliciousness.  "Heidelberg  was  good,"  she  said, 
with  a  final  efl'ort;  "I  loved  the  hill  and  its  castle;  but 
Baden,  O,  Baden,  I  said,  I  will  never  leave  it!" 

Next  to  Naples,  Baden  is  most  addicted  to  carved 
coral.  It  is  dear,  as  arc  all  beautiful  things  every- 
where outside  of  heaven,  but  not  so  dear  as  in  America. 

From  Baden  we  went  round  a  corner  to  Strasbourg, 
which  has  lately  dropped  out  of  French  into  German 
hands;  but  like  a  slave  sold  late  in  life,  it  is  too  old  to 
change  its  character  or  habits.  There  is  ait  air  of 
solidity  and  time-worn  custom  about  it,  as  if  it  ha'l 
stood  from  the  beginnins:  of  the  world.  Even  the 
Romans  found  it  a  goodly  town,  and   added  nothing 


154  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

but  fortifications.  The  cathedral  tower  is  so  high  and 
light,  it  might  be  the  only  pinnacle  left  of  the  tower 
built  by  the  giants  to  scale  heaven.  In  the  first  French 
revolution,  this  great  height  was  considered  to  insult 
the  principle  of  equality,  and  was  only  saved  from 
destruction  by  the  Strasbourgers  hastening  to  put  the 
red  cap  of  liberty  on  it.  That  red  cap,  made  of  tin,  is 
now  preserved  in  the  city,  a  monument  of  French 
idiocy. 

The  cathedral-front  is  dainty  as  a  bit  of  point-lace; 
it  was  brought  to  perfection  by  three  generations  of 
Steinbachs,  chief  among  whom  is  remembered  Sabina 
Von  Steinbach,  one  of  the  few  women  who  have  ap- 
prenticed themselves  to  the  trade  of  architecture,  which 
Madame  de  Stael  calls  "frozen  rriusic."  In  the  intericrr, 
one  pillar,  called  the  '-Pillar  of  the  Angels,"  is  espe- 
cially hers,  and  one  of  a  group  of  Apostles  holds  a 
scroll  with  these  words  on  it  in  Latin  :  — 

"May  the  grace  of  God  fall  to  thy  share,  Sabina, 
Whose  hands  have  formed  my  image  out  of  this  hard  stone." 

Some  of  the  grace  of  man  also  fell  to  her  share,  for 
when  she  went  to  the  cathedral  to  see  this  group  ar- 
ranged, the  archbishop  came  to  meet  her,  and  placed  a 
laurel  wreath  on  her  head. 

There  is  in  many  of  the  sculptures  and  ornaments  of 
the  Strasbourg  Cathedral,  a  varying  richness  and  deli- 
cacy that  I  have  not  seen  in  any  other;  like  the  over- 
flowing, of  a  pure  woman's  thoughts.  The  famous 
clock  in  one  corner  draws  a  greater  crowd  than  all  the 
carved  memories  of  Sabina.  It  calculates  almost  every- 
thing but  the  end  of  the  world.     Near  the  top  is  a  ^g- 


A    WOMAN'S    FA  CAT/ON'.  155 

ure  of  Time  with  a  scythe:  at  the  first  quarter  of  the 
hour,  the  figure  of  a  child  passes  before  him;  at  the 
second,  a  youth ;  at  the  thii'd,  a  man  of  middle  age ;  and 
on  the  hour,  a  graybeard  bowed  with  age.  Above  is  a 
figure  of  Christ,  and  at  noon  the  twelve  apostles  walk 
around  him,  each  one  turning  and  bowing  as  he  passes. 
These  figures  are  all  about  a  foot  high  ;  and  to  close  the 
puppet-show,  a  cock  of  life-size  crows  hoarsely  three 
times.  The  clock  calculates  the  times  of  ecclesiastical 
festivals,  many  of  which  are  movable.  This  part  of  the 
machine  is  said  to  require  a  thousand  wheels,  and  at  the 
begiiming  of  the  new  year  they  all  turn  round  and 
arrange  themselves  for  a  new  start. 

The  town  is  rich  in  high-peaked  houses  of  Spanish 
memory,  favorite  haunts  of  the  sacred  bird,  the  stork, 
which  struts  about  the  streets  and  makes  nests  on  the 
chimneys  as  if  it  were  the  real  landlord  of  the  town, 
and  the  inhabitants  mere  tenants  at  will.  They  have 
names,  like  children  of  the  fiimily ;  and  it  is  looked  on 
as  an  unfailing  sign  of  coming  misfortune  when  the 
storks  desert  a  house  where  they  have  long  lived,  and 
make  a  nest  on  another  chimney.  When  Van  Arte- 
velde  takes  on  him  the  dangerous  headship  of  the 
rebellious  citizens  of  Ghent,  Clara,  his  sister,  dissuades 
him  with  this  potent  argument :  — 

**  Roger  was  esteemed 
The  wisest  stork  in  Ghent,  and  flew  away 
But  twice  hefore ;  — the  first  time  in  the  night 
Before  my  father  took  that  office  up 
Which  proved  so  fatal  in  the  end,  and  then, 
The  second  time,  the  night  before  he  died." 


156  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

Strasbourg  is  the  headquarters  of  that  epicurean  dish 
"Pates  de  foie  gras,"  made  from  the  livers  of  geese  that 
are  fattened  in  a  hot  place.  Who  would  be  a  goose  in 
Strasbourg? 

The  women  of  Alsace,  of  which  this  old  city  is  the 
capital,  wear  for  head-gear  an  enormous  black  ribbon 
bow,  which  flares  out  from  the  back  of  the  head  like 
wings.  It  is  inexpressibly  odd  in  its  effect,  yet  not  un- 
graceful, if  it  make  a  dark  background  to  a  pretty  face. 

In  front  of  the  cathedral  I  think  we  met  very  nearly, 
if  not  quite,  its  youngest,  citizen  —  a  choleric-looking 
baby  submerged,  all  but  its  head,  in  a  padded  and 
ruffled  calico  bag.  The  nurse  tried  to  convey  to  us  its 
age  in  broken  French  and  crumbly  German,  and  some 
of  us,  who  knew  more  of  languages  than  of  babies, 
thought  she  said  ''ten  days;"  but  I  am  persuaded  she 
meant  ten  hours,  and  that  it  is  one  of  the  time-honored 
customs  of  the  city  to  show  the  cathedral  to  its  babies, 
or  the  babies  to  the  cathedral,  on  the  very  first  day  of 
their  arrival  in  Strasbourg. 

As  we  turned  our  faces  towards  Basle  and  the  Alps, 
we  had  frequent  reason  to  hope  that  old  father  Oi  igen's 
doctrine  is  a  true  one,  namely,  that  at  the  judgment 
day  all  women  are  changed  into  men.  There  must  be 
a  warm  sympathy  between  the  women  of  this  region 
and  the  other  lower  animals,  where  a  woman  and  a 
cow  are  sometimes  harnessed  tosjether  to  draw  the 
plough,  and  a  donkey  cannot  drag  his  load  up  hill  with- 
out a  woman  to  pull  with  him. 

"  1  am  a  woman,  woe  is  me ! 
Born  to  grief  and  irksome  care." 


A    WOMAN'S    FA  CAT/ON'.  157 

Later  we  saw  a  woman  and  a  donkey  drawing  a  cart 
along  a  stony  road,  with  a  raan  in  the  cart  fast  asleep ; 
and  when  she  passed  a  steep  place  with  a  pile  of  stones 
at  the  bottom,  her  spirit  had  been  so  dulled  by  long 
oppression  that  she  passed  it  by,  and  never  perceived 
her  opportunity  to  tip  out  her  lord  and  master,  and 
pretend  it  was  an  accident.  She  was  more  stupid  than 
the  donkey. 

Near  Brussels  two  women  were  spreading  a  load  of 
manure  on  a  field,  barefooted  and  bareheaded  in  the 
blazing  sun, — 

**  Women  they. 
Or  what  had  been  those  gracious  things." 

"We  never  see  such  a  thins:  in  America.  Tt  is  a 
happy  place  for  women,"  we  said  to  our  stolid  old 
coachman,  for  want  of  any  other  foreign  audience  to 
hear  our  little  brag. 

"And  unhappy  for  men?"  was  his  instant  question, 
as  if  one  implied  the  other. 

"I  don't  know;  I  never  asked  them,"  I  said,  with  a 
sudden  doubt;  but  Juno  scorned  my  uncertainty. 

"You  have  no  need  to  ask  them;  wherever  women 
are  happy,  men  are  in  Paradise!"  She  said  it  in  Eng- 
lish, but  that  old  coachman  shrugged  his  shoulders  all 
the  same.  Later  in  the  day  we  took  up  this  stitch 
where  we  had  dropped  it. 

"  It  only  looks  barbarous  to  us  because  it  is  unfa- 
miliar," said  St.  Ursula,  who  would  find  excuses  for  a 
cannibal.  "Perhaps  these  peasant  women  have  a  hap- 
piness of  their  own,  and  would  not  change  with  us. 
They  have  never  known  anything  better,  and  don't 


158  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

mind  it.  I  have  seen  refined  and  delicate  women  in 
AiYierica  drudging  all  day  over  a  hot  cooking-stove, 
when  it  would  have  been  better  for  their  souls  and 
bodies  to  work  in  the  fields  with  their  husbands." 

"I  cannot  think  so,"  I  said,  rushing  to  take  up  St. 
Ursula's  gauntlet.  "A  woman's  temple  is  in  her  home; 
anything  that  takes  her  out  of  it  makes  that  temple 
desolate  just  so  long  as  she  stnys  away.  A  house  with- 
out a  mistress  in  it,  is  a  body  without  a  soul.  When 
she  voluntarily  leaves  it  to  lecture,  or  to  preach,  or  to 
till  the  ground,  or  to  do  anything  that  lays  bare  her 
sacred  seclusion,  and  places  her  on  the  same  level  with 
men,  she  stoops  to  do  work  lower  than  that  which  is 
divinely  appointed  to  her  to  do  in  her  own  sphere. 
She  may  do  it  better  than  men ;  but  it  is  degradation, 
nevertheless._  She  sells  her  birthright  for  a  mess  of 
pottage,  that  nourishes  neither  herself  nor  anybody 
else.  A  refined  and  delicate  woman  hanging  over  a 
cooking-stove  does  not  move  me  to  pity  as  would  the 
same  w^oman  (supposing  that  one  refined  and  delicate 
ever  did  such  a  thing)  if  she  cut  off  her  long  hair,  her 
glory,  dressed  herself  in  two  shades  of  light  silk,  with 
train,  and  over-dress,  and  ruffles,  and  gold  ornaments, 
and  round  tires  like  the  moon,  and  went  up  on  a  plat- 
form to  work  herself  into  a  white  heat  of  indignation 
because  women  are  not  permitted  to  vote.  One  may 
boil  and  bake  all  day,  and  not  be  so  hot  and  panting  as 
I  have  seen  a  famous  woman-lecturer,  after  an  hour's 
vigorous  scolding  at  the  oppressive  man  of  straw  who 
will  not  give  women  the  suffrage.  To  the  best  of  my 
belief,  women  have  voted  from  the  beginning  of  the 
world.      Nothing  good,  bad,  or  indifferent  ever  hap- 


A    WOMAN'S   VACATION.  159 

pcnecl  that  they  had  not  a  hand  in  it.  And  of  all  the 
sex,  for  an  American  woman  to  disturb  herself  about 
her  rights,  is  like  an  old  lady  searching  for  her  spec- 
tacles when  they  are  on  her  nose  all  the  time." 

"I  have  no  desire  to  lecture,"  said  St.  Ursula,  "nor 
to  wear  'two  shades  of  light  silk;'  but  I  still  think  that 
an  immense  amount  of  womanly  eloquence,  and  poetry, 
and  power  has  gone  up  the  kitchen  chimney  in  our 
happy  country." 

"  It  may  be  so ;  but  it  might  have  been  equally  wasted 
on  a  platform.  I  knew  a  woman — 'we  ne'er  shall  look 
upon  lier  like  again'  —  who  did  the  drudging  work  of 
a  farmer's  wife,  in  a  low-roofed  cottage,  all  her  life,  and 
brought  up  ten  children  to  be  noble  and  worthy  men 
and  women,  always  standing  ready,  and  keeping  their 
powder  dry,  to  serve  their  country  when  it  needed 
them.  She  lived  to  see  three  of  her  sons  in  Congress 
at  the  same  time ;  to  see  them  governors,  and  generals, 
and  ambassadors,  healing  foreign  as  well  as  home 
wounds,  and  all  of  them  rose  up  and  called  her  blessed. 

"  She  never  had  a  more  intimate  friend  than  her  fire- 
place; she  was  forced  to  stick  to  it  closer  than  a  brother 
for  a  score  of  years,  in  order  to  fill  her  children's  mouths; 
but  when  she  could  find  no  other  moment  in  which  to 
keep  up  with  the  history  of  her  country,  she  would 
have  one  of  the  boys  read  to  her,  at  the  breakfast  table, 
the  speeches  made  by  Webster,  and  Clay,  and  Calhoun, 
who  were  then  in  their  glory. 

"In  her  triumphant  old  age,  she  was  like  the  mother 
of  kings.  When  she  asked  me  if  I  liad  read  the  last 
speech  of  this  son  or  that  son,  I  felt  that  she  was  show- 
ing me  the  crown  jewels.     She  seldom  stirred  fifty  feet 


160  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

from  her  kitchen,  and  yet  she  marie  herself  a  power  in 
the  earth.  If  she  had  lived  in  cities,  and  held  a  weekly 
reception  of  the  most  gifted  people  in  the  land,  or  had 
crowded  all  her  heart  and  brain  into  a  book  of  poems 
or  a  novel,  which  should  touch  the  soul  of  the  whole 
nation,  she  might  have  had  more  of  the  semblance  of 
fame,  but  not  a  tithe  of  its  substance  that  came  to  her 
as  she  sent  forth  one  after  another  of  her  worthy 
workers  in  her  Lord's  vineyard." 

"You  forget,"  said  St.  Ursula,  "that  neither  kitchens 
nor  children  enter  into  the  lot  of  some  women,  to  be 
made  glorious,  if  they  are  ever  so  willing  and  able. 
You  forget  the  old  maids." 

"Never!  May  my  right  hand  forget  its  cunning 
when  I  forget  them.  They  are  the  bone  and  sinew, 
the  reserve  guard  of  the  country ;  but  I  maintain  that 
no  woman  has  a  right  to  be  an  old  maid." 

"  She  may  have  no  choice." 

"I  deny  it.  Every  woman  has  the  choice  at  least 
once  in  her  life.  Take  our  own  party,  and  try  the 
argumentum  ad  foeminam  (if  there  is  such  a  thing). 
We  are,  at  this  present,  ten  women  of  all  ages,  from 
seventeen  to  fifty,  matrons  and  maidens;  but  might  we 
not  all  have  married  at  some  time  in  our  lives,  if  we 
would  ?  "  A  conscious  smile  mounted  into  twenty  eyes 
and  a  little  flush  of  color  brightened  some  cheeks,  as 
my  foolish  words  brought  up  some  sad,  or  sweet,  or 
triumphant  memory  out  of  the  dead  past. 

"Of  all  women's  rights,  you  would  say,"  said  St. 
Ursula,  "  the  only  one  really  worth  fighting  for,  is  the 
right  to  love  and  to  be  loved  ?  " 

"And  to  refuse  love,"  suggested  Juno.    "The  poorest 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  IGl 

and  forlornest  of  women  have  that  right;  not  St.  Paul 
nor  the  legislature  can  take  it  from  them.  I  suppose 
it  is  this,  with  a  generous  allowance  of  beer  and  cab- 
bage, which  keeps  the  German  women  in  such  good 
condition." 

11 


162  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 


CHAPTER   XII. 


SWITZERLAND. 


"What  pleasure  lives  in  height  — 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the  hills?** 

AT  Basle,  the  hotel  of  "The  Three  Kings"  swal- 
lowed us  bodily,  and  never  thought  of  us  again. 
It  is  a  caravanserai,  very  gorgeous  in  its  appointments, 
fit  to  entertnin  "Caspar,  Melchior,  and  Baltasar"  theni- 
Belves;  but  any  visitor  of  lower  rank  than  a  king  must 
fight  valiantly  to  secure  any  attention  at  all.  It  was 
here,  too,  that  we  put  our  collective  foot  down  on  the 
"candle  fraud."  At  every  continental  hotel,  each  vis- 
itor is  charged  for  a  whole  candle,  even  if  he  stay  but 
one  night,  and  does  not  light  it  at  all.  If  four  people 
use  one  room,  they  pay  for  four  candles,  and  the  ser- 
vant rushes  ahead  of  you  to  light  them  all,  with  an 
enthusiasm  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  Next  day  the 
candles  are  ingeniously  whittled  down  to  represent 
new  ones  to  the  next  comer.  At  Basle  we  made  a 
mild  protest  against  paying  for  seven  candles,  none  of 
which  had  been  lighted,  for  fear  of  mosquitos.^ 

If  the  clerk  had  been  born  and  bred  in  an  American 
hotel,  he  could  not- have  crushed  us  more  superciliously 
with  his,  "You  had  the  chance  to  light  them;  you 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  163 

must  pay  for  that."  We  did  pay  for  it  (thoy  are  not 
afraid  of  women's  wrath  in  that  country),  and  solemn- 
ly rolled  up  our  seven  candles  in  the  heart  of  our  bag- 
gage, and  went  forth  from  his  house  like  a  tallow- 
chandler  with  six  ilpprentices. 

We  did  not  find  Basle  wonderful  in  any  way,  except 
that  an  evening  on  the  balcony  overhanging  the  Rhine 
will  probably  remain  in  the  memory,  when  many  statues 
and  pictures  have  wiped  each  other  out.  The  river  is 
swift,  and  careless,  and  relentless  as  Fate.  Men  have 
put  a  "thus  far,  and  no  farther,"  to  it  with  stone  edges, 
and  thrown  out  a  balcony  here  and  there,  from  which 
to  watch  it  go  by,  and  that  is  about  all  men  can  do 
with  their  Fate. 

It  was  here  in  the  darkness  that  I  heard  a  loud  voice 
say,  "What  do  I  care  for  these  little  spouting  Swiss 
waterfalls,  when  I  have  seen  Niagara?"  as  who  should 
say,  "  Why  do  I  care  to  look  at  any  other  woman, 
when  mine  eyes  have  beheld  Barnum's  fat  lady,  who 
weighs  six  hundred  pounds?"  More  than  one  on  the 
balcony  groaned  inwardly,  "O  my  country,  may  you 
not  be  judged  by  your  travelling  children!" 

On  the  way  from  Basle  to  Lucerne,  the  sweet  breath 
of  the  mountains  begins  to  cool  the  air,  and  snow  caps 
appear  in  the  distance,  with  the  Jungfrau  in  the  midst, 
like  a  noble  lady  ministered  to  by  her  hand-maidens. 

We  pass  the  lake  and  battle-field  of  Sempach,  where 
the  Swiss  conquered  their  old  enemies,  the  Austrians, 
by  the  example  of  one  hero. 

The  foe  had  adopted  a  new  military  tactic  of  fight- 
ing in  a  square  with  pikes  outward,  and  believed  them- 
selves impenetrable;  but  Arnold   von  Winckelreid,  a 


164  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

man  of  immense  strength,  saw  his  opportunity  as  they 
advanced,  and  calling  out  to  his  followers,  "  Country- 
men, remember  my  wife  and  children,"  gathered  liis 
arms  full  of  pikes  into  his  own  breast,  and  so  broke 
the  square.  The  Swiss  struck  into  the  breach  so  made, 
and  routed  the  Austrians. 

**This  patriot's  self-devoted  deed 

First  tamed  the  lion's  mood,  \ 

And  the  four  forest  cantons  freed 
From  thraldom  by  his  blood." 

Many  poems  have  been  built  out  of  it,  but  no  one 
seems  to  know  whether  the  "women-folks"  of  this 
hero  were  properly  remembered  or  not  by  his  country- 
men. I  cannot  imagine  a  more  uncomfortable  position 
for  a  woman  than  to  be  the  wife  of  a  real  working 
hero  or  philanthropist.  She  is  sure  to  be  offered  up  as 
a  sacrifice  on  one  altar  or  another. 

Heroism  used  to  be  its  own  reward;  but  since  the 
age  of  scepticism  has  set  in,  and  learning  has  been 
stalking  about  Switzerland  to  prove  that  no  such  man 
as  William  Tell  ever  existed,  it  is  pretty  certain  that 
Arnold  von  Winckelreid's  days  of  f'lme  are  numbered. 

A  bright,  green  river,  like  a  melted  emerald,  comes 
rushing  out  of  Lucerne  to  meet  the  traveller.  This 
river  Reuss  springs  out  of  the  green  lake  that  lies  lov- 
ingly about  the  feet  of  Lucerne,  and  pillows  on  its 
breast  the  mountain  shadows. 

The  town  is  perfect  for  situation  ;  mountain  and  lake 
can  no  farther  go!  It  is  like  turning  over  an  illus- 
trated book,  in  which  the  pictures  are  far  better  than 
the  text,  and  even  the  railway  station,  with  its  carved 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION,  165 

gables,  serves  for  a  frontispiece.  There  are  plenty  of 
views  in  Switzerland  more  grand  and  solemn,  but  Lu- 
cerne Las  just  enough  beauty  for  human  nature's  daily 
food.  It  keeps  one  cheerful  without  the  wear  and  tear 
of  enthusiasm. 

In  its  quaint  old  church  is  a  famous  organ,  played  in 
the  twilight  of  every  day.  It  ended  with  a  storm- 
piece  beginning  in  distant  rumbling  and  pouring  rain, 
which  made  every  one  instinctively  glance  up  at  the 
windows ;  then  came  a  mighty  rushing  wind  and  thun- 
der, so  sharp  and  rattling  that  the  lightning  seemed  to 
strike  the  seat  in  front  of  us ;  there  was  water  running 
down  the  roofs  and  in  the  streets,  and  birds  chirping 
out  of  wet  branches,  and  long  blasts  of  the  Alpine 
horn,  with  half  a  dozen  echoes  more  and  more  distant. 
At  last  the  rain  grew  lighter  and  softer,  and  the  sun 
came  out  with  a  great  burst  of  shine,  and  the  wholo 
earth  was  glad  of  the  rain.  People  turned  pale  and 
red,  and  some  young  girls  cried  from  excitement.  It 
was  a  great  surprise  to  go  outside  and  find  dust  blow- 
ing in  the  streets,  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

All  around  the  church  is  a  curious  covered  cemetery, 
ornamented  with  pictures,  and  statues,  and  artificial 
flowers.  The  lowest  line  on  every  tombstone  was 
"K.  I.  P.,"  which  sounded  better  when  we  bethought 
us  to  magnify  it  into  "Reqiiiescat  in  Pace." 

Every  one  goes  to  see  the  "  Lion  of  Lucerne,"  carved 
out  of  the  stone  face  of  an  everlasting  hill,  in  memory 
of  the  Swiss  guards  who  defended  the  Tuileries  in  the 
first  insanity  of  France.  Louis  XVI.  and  Marie  An- 
toitiette  had  fled  to  the  Assembly  for  safety,  and  these 
Swi^is  guards  died,  man  by  man,  to  the  number  of  Q.\Q 


166  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

hundred  and  sixty  men  and  twenty-six  officers  at  the 
hands  of  the  mob.  The  lion,  designed  by  Thorwaldsen, 
lies  in  a  niche  in  the  wall  of  rock,  over  a  pool  of  still 
water,  and  shaded  darkly  by  trees.  His  face  has  more 
nobility  than  that  of  most  men,  and  he  clasps  in  death 
a  shield  bearing  the  lilies  of  France.  Lucerne  is  a 
walled  town,  with  watch-towers,  and  has  some  queer 
old  painted  bridges,  which  ought  to  be  looked  at  in 
the  brightest  part  of  the  day. 

In  one  of  them  is  the  '-Dance  of  Death,"  which 
makes  one  scene  in  Longfellow's  Golden  Legend. 

Elsie,  —  "  What  are  these  paintings  on  the  Avails  around  us  ?  " 
Prince  Henry,  —  "  The  Dance  of  Death  : 

All  that  go  to  and  fro  must  look  upon  it, 

Mindful  of  what  thcj  shall  be. 

The  grim  musician 

Leads  all  men  through  the  mazes  of  that  dance. 

To  different  sounds  in  different  measures  moving; 

Sometimes  he  plays  a  lute,  sometimes  a  drum, 

To  tempt  or  terrify." 

The  ascent  of  Mount  Rhigi,  one  of  the  easiest  of  all 
the  Swiss  mountains,  is  made  from  Lucerne  betw^eeu 
eight  in  the  morning  and  six  at  night ;  but  the  liivorite 
visit  is  for  the  night,  for  which  a  telegram  must  be 
sent  up  in  advance,  on  account  of  the  rush  of  people. 
There  is  no  certainty,  however,  of  seeing  either  sunset 
or  sunrise,  and  th^  journey  is  often  made  wholly  in 
cloudland.  On  a  clear  day,  one  counts  a  dozen  lakes 
from  the  summit,  and  the  passion  which  most  people 
have  to  be  taken  into  a  high  mountain,  and  shown  all 
the  kingdoms  of  the  earth,  is  gratified.  The  railway 
is  like  all  others,  except  for  a  broad  central  rail  with 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION,  167 

teetb,  in  which  a  cogged  wheel  under  the  engine  turns. 
The  passenger  car  is  always  in  fi'ont,  and  may  be 
stopped  almost  instantly.  Timid  people  go  up  on 
horseback,  and  the  absolute  cowards  on  foot. 

Mount  Pilatus  is  another  favorite  of  aspiring  souls 
near  Lucerne.  It  signifies  "capped  mountain;"  and 
wlien  the  cap  of  fog  stays  on  through  the  morning, 
it  means  fine  weather.     People  use  it  for  a  barometer. 

*'  Overhead, 
Shaking  his  cloudy  tresses  loose  in  air, 
Rises  Pilatus,  with  his  windy  pines." 

There  is  a  legend  that  Pontius  Pilate  was  banished 
to  this  mountain,  and,  driven  by  remorse,  threw  him- 
self over  one  of  its  cliffs.  It  is  uncertain  whether  he 
suggested  the  name,  or  the  name  suggested  him.  The 
Swiss  mountains  have  been  trimmed  and  made  over 
as  much  as  possible ;  but  there  is  plenty  of  material 
afforded  in  these  days  for  new  and  tragical  legends. 

While  we  tarried  at  Lucerne,  a  young  Englishman 
went  up  Mount  Pilatus  to  look  for  rare  ferns  and 
Alpine  flowers.  Not  coming  back  at  night,  his  father 
and  mother  took  it  for  granted  that  he  had  gone  on  by- 
boat  to  Interlachen,  and  when  they  arrived  there,  they 
learned  that  his  broken  body  had  been  found  at  the 
foot  of  a  precipice. 

The  fashion  of  offering  up  human  sacrifices  will 
never  die  out  while  people  ascend  mountains  just  for 
the  sake  of  saying  they  have  been  there. 

It  is  noticeable  that  the  climbing  passion  is  pecu- 

;liar  to  long  and  lean  persons  having  a  hungry  look 

like  Cassius.    Plump,  round,  easy-going  souls  are  con- 


168  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

tent  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  Nature,  without  scalinsr  her 
heights. 

The  cream  of  all  the  day's  journeys  that  may  be 
made  from  Lucerne  is  the  sail  on  the  lake  to  Fluelen 
and  "  Tell's  Chapel."  It  is  said  to  be  built  on  the  spot 
where  Tell  leaped  ashore  and  shot  Gessler.  It  was 
consecrated  only  thirty  years  afler  his  death,  in  the 
presence  of  more  than  a  hundred  people  who  had 
known  him  in  the  body,  which  would  seem  a  sufficient 
answer  to  the  doubts  which  have  been  thrown  on  the 
existence  of  any  such  man  as  William  Tell.  Mr. 
Baring-Gould,  in  a  book  called  Myths  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  has  tried  to  undermine  the  truth  of  Tell's  story, 
on  the  strength  of  having  found  half  a  dozen  similar 
legends  in  the  literature  of  Persia  and  Norway,  Den- 
mark and  Iceland. 

Tell  did  a  most  heroic  thing ;  but  others  have  done 
the  same  thing  in  a  similar  way;  therefore  no  such  per- 
son as  Tell  ever  existed,  except  in  poetry.  Women 
are  said  to  be  incapable  of  a  syllogism,  and  I  rejoice 
that  no  woman  was  guilty  of  this  one.  It  seems  to 
me  a  thing  to  be  desired  that  men  should  shoot  apples 
off  their  sons'  heads  in  a  noble  cause  through  all  the 
ages,  if  heroism  happens  to  take  that  form.  The 
authors,  who  try  to  blot  out  of  history  its  most  in- 
spiring passages,  are  worse  than  the  old  image-breakers 
who  knocked  off  the  noses  of  statues  in  the  Catholic 
churches.  They  thought  they  were  doing  God  service ; 
but  Mr.  Baring-Gould's  book  served  neither  God  nor 
man. 

The  Golden  Age  of  any  literature  has  been  long 
dead  and  buried  before  the  age  of  criticism  sets  in. 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  169 

"Do  you  know  who  are  the  critics?^  says  Mr.  Dis- 
raeli in  Lothair.  ''They  are  those  who  liave  failed 
in  literature  and  art."  Of  all  Mr.  Disraeli's  arrows, 
—  and  he  hath  his  quiver  full  of  them,  —  perhaps  not 
one  has  a  sharper  point  than  this. 

All  the  mountain-guardians  of  Lucerne  had  their 
caps  on,  when  we  crossed  the  lake  at  seven  in  the 
morning  to  Alpnach  and  took  carriages  for  the  Brunig 
Pass.  There  is  a  flavor  in  mountain  air,  that  goes  to 
one's  head  hke  new  wine. 

"  We  were  gay  together. 
And  laughed  at  little  jests. " 

for  an  unsuspicious  hour  or  two,  rolling  through  the 
most  beautiful  scenery  in  the  world.  Long  tradition,  if 
not  experience,  might  have  taught  us  that  it  was  too 
sood  to  last.  Too  much  comfort  is  not  consistent  with 
this  world's  scheme  of  government.  The  old  monks 
might  have  known  better  than  to  wear  hair  shirts  and 
flaorellate  themselves  through  the  night  hours.  That 
sort  of  thing  will  always  be  done  for  us  in  the  course 
of  nature  if  we  wait  long  enough.  Happiness  is  not 
found  in  nuggets ;  it  has  to  be  dug  out  of  life  with  labor 
and  pains.  Our  caravan  of  twelve  carriages  came  to  a 
sudden  stop  without  any  visible  cause,  and  an  English- 
man came  to  our  door,  announcing,  in  the  unmoved  way 
common  to  his  nation,  that  the  mountain  torrents  had 
washed  away  the  road,  and  made  it  impassable  for  car- 
riages for  five  or  six  miles.  He  had  no  doubt  that  such 
a  difficulty  would  be  at  once  overcome  in  his  country, 
because  every  one  would  make  an  effort ;  but  "these  peo- 
ple" (the  Swiss)  never  made  efforts.     Bags  and  valises 


170  BBATEN  PATHS,    OR 

might  be  carried  over  on  men's  slioulders,  but  trunks 
must  be  left  behind.  Ah  !  tlien  and  there  were  partings 
to  wring  one's  heart,  for  women  can  be  divorced  from 
anything  more  easily  than  from  their  clothes.  J 

They  retired  into  dark  corners  with  their  baggage, 
bending  over  it  long  and  lovingly,  and  coming  back 
with  large  bundles  done  up  in  newspapers  and  shawl- 
straps.  Some  of  our  party  had  mourned  for  their  / 
trunks  (which  liad  been  left  in  London)  as  for  the 
flesh-pots  of  Egypt;  but  we  were  all  converted  into 
carpet-baggers  from  this  time  forth.  There  was  an 
Italian  duke  in  the  party,  with  a  train  of  servants 
and  a  daughter  lovely  enough  for  another  Juliet;  but 
mountain  torrents  are  no  respecters  of  persons. 

The  Englishwomen,  in  the  company  of  fifty  that 
straggled  over  the  mountain  on  that  brilliant  morning, 
girded  up  their  loins,  and  got  over  the  ground  as  if 
they  had  done  the  same  thing  every  day  of  their  lives ; 
but  "les  Americaines"  puffed,  and  panted,  and  turned 
white,  and  did  the  last  mile  or  two  on  their  minds 
rather  than  on  their  feet. 

One  old  couple  (English,  of  course),  sixty-five  and 
seventy  years  old,  led  the  van,  and  scorning  to  take  the 
diligences  when  they  came  to  meet  us,  walked  on  ten 
miles  more  to  Brienz;  and  when  we  joined  them  on  the 
boat  at  that  place,  the  old  lady  looked  as  fair  and 
unflushed  as  when  she  started.  At  home  we  should 
put  such  a  feat  in  the  newspaper,  and  no  one  would 
believe  a  word  of  it. 

For  two  mortal  hours,  we  weaker  vessels  struggled 
over  long  stretches  of  loose  stones,  and  yellow  mud, 
and  rushing  water,  with  no  soul  left  in  us  to  admire  the 


A    WOMAN'S   VACATION.  171 

waterfalls  that  festooned  the  gray  mountain  walls  like 
white  ribbons.  To  us,  they  were  not  bridal  favors,  but 
so  many  taunts  and  jeers  at  our  forlorn  condition. 
Some  one  remembeied  a  cheerful  story  of  a  young 
man  and  his  sister  walking  over  a  Swiss  road,  torn 
up  like  this  one,  and  the  brother,  turning  his  foot  on 
a  loose  stone,  slipped  and  fell  over  the  edge,  going 
down  hundreds  of  feet  in  the  current  of  the  fall.  An- 
other added  that  this  young  man  had  all  the  money  of 
the  family  in  his  pocket,  so  that  his  sister  was  left  pen- 
niless. Still  another  had  later  news  of  the  sister,  whose 
grief  did  so  scatter  her  wits,  that  she  threw  herself 
over  the  next  precipice.  Thus  did  we  cheer  our  souls 
with  anecdote  along  the  rugged  way. 

Two  or  three  p(5ople  came  back  in  their  tracks,  and 
reported  that  it  was  impossible  to  go  on ;  we  must  cer- 
tainly turn  back  and  spend  Sunday  at  Lucerne.  When 
we  declined  their  advice  with  thanks,  and  pushed  on, 
they  wished  us  "bon  voyage"  with  a  mingling  of  sor- 
row and  contempt,  which  made  us  renew  our  strength 
like  eagles.  One  can  do  anything,  upheld  by  a  contrary  J 
mind. 

At  Lagnau  we  were  fed  and  comforted  with  eight  or 
ten  courses  of  Swiss  cookery,  and  the  American  wrecks 
were  packed  into  other  diligences  for  the  last  ten  miles. 
The  Brunig  Pass  is  full  of  beauty,  pressed  down  and 
running  over;  but  our  admiration  was,  for  that  day  at 
least,  tempered  with  awe.  The  way  winds  and  winds 
like  a  spiral  staircase,  and  comes  out  many  times  in-  view 
of  the  same  waterfall.  It  creeps  under  an  overhanging 
rock  which  "baptizes  by  sprinkling"  every  one  who 
passed  under  it.    This  water  comes  from  hidden  springs, 


172  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

which  must  some  time  slice  off  this  rock  as  with  a 
knife;  and  when  it  falls,  the  end  of  the  world  will  come 
for  those  who  now  live  placidly  at  its  feet  in  the  valley. 

A  muddy  stream  rushes  angrily  through  the  ravine, 
as  if  it  resented  the  stone  walls  that  keep  it  so  narrow, 
when  it  might  flood  a  dozen  villages  as  well  as  not. 
The  lake  shore,  when  we  take  steamer  again  for  Inter- 
laken,  is  studded  with  villas  and  carved  cottages,  and 
the  Geissbach  Fall  makes  a  final  plunge  into  the  lake, 
after  all  its  amorous  dalliance  with  the  mountain-side. 
The  cottages  all  over  Switzerland  wear  their  roofs  far 
over  the  walls,  like  broad-brimmed  hats;  and  under  tliis 
shelter  it  is  common  to  write  texts  and  bits  of  poetry 
in  large  letters,  that  he  who  runs  may  read.  On  one 
near  Geissbach  is  the  line,  in  German,  "Dear  friend, 
love  more  and  see  clearer  in  every  man  a  brother." 

Interlaken  lies  between  the  lakes,  as  its  name  implies, 
but  it  should  be  called  a  village  of  hotels.  A  circle  of 
steep  wooded  hills  stands  all  around  it,  like  sentinels, 
not  grimly,  but  as  if  it  were  a  favorite  prisoner.  A 
green  river  clasps  it  like  an  arm  about  its  waist.  Be- 
tween two  low  mountains,  the  Jungfrau  looks  down  on 
the  village  like  a  maiden  just  risen  from  sleep,  parting 
her  curtains  to  look  over  the  hills  and  far  away  for  her 
lover.  Interlaken  is  always  crowded  in  the  season; 
but  there  is  little  to  see  there,  except  the  people  and 
the  Jungfrau. 

All  nations  meet  together  in  peace,  as  it  will  be  in 
the  millennium,  '-Jew  and  Gentile,  bond  and  free,"  not 
to  mention  dusky  Creoles  from  the  isles  of  the  sea,  and 
bushy  Russians,  whose  names  are  best  pronounced  by 
a  sneeze. 


A    WOMAN'S  VACATION,  173 

Its  great  charm  lies  in  its  restfulness.  When  the 
grasshopper  is  a  burden,  the  only  reraedy  is  to  sit  down 
in  a  still  place  and  wait  for  hope  and  interest  to  spring 
up  again.  Multitudes  find  this  still  place  at  Inter- 
laken,  and  use  it  to  repair  damages  in  soul  and  body. 

Large  parties  are  happiest  in  foreign  hotels,  because 
they  need  not  die  of  silence;  but  solitary  travellers 
wander  about  like  lost  spirits  on  the'  Stygian  shore, 
looking  importunate,  but  speaking  to  no  one. 

American  girls  are  pretty  and  plenty  at  Interlaken. 
Their  distinguishing  mark  in  '73  lay  in  the  tower  of 
braids  which  made  each  one  a  "turret-crowned  Cybele." 
It  may  be  only  patriotism  which  leads  every  American 
to  rejoice  in  the  superior  beauty  of  his  countrywomen 
abroad.  Foreigners  think  so  too,  if  a  prolonged  and 
exhaustive  scrutiny  be  any  proof.  Staring  among  for- 
eign gentlemen  is  cultivated  as  a  fine  art.  They  look 
at  a  pretty  American  girl  as  Adam  must  have  looked 
at  Eve,  when  he  woke  from  his  long  sleep  and  met  her 
eyes  for  the  first  time.  The  gaze  is  at  first  curious,  as 
of  one  who  had  never  seen  a  woman  before,  and  melts 
at  last  into  an  intense  satisfaction.  A  young  girl  who 
has  endured  a  season  in  a  foreign  hotel,  going  to  table 
d'hote  every  day,  is  safe  to  run  any  gantlet  of  eyes 
that  will  ever  be  bent  on  her  at  home.  The  old 
maxim,  that  "  it  takes  two  to  make  a  stare,"  does  not 
hold  good  in  Europe. 

There  is  no  class  on  foreign  soil  that  corresponds  to 
American  girls.  At  home  they  have  their  own  way, 
and  it  makes  even  the  plain  ones  piquant  and  stylish, 
full  of  gay  talk  and  laughter.  There  is  no  other  recipe 
so  certain  to  develop  a  woman's  beauty.    It  is  the 


/ 


174  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

young  married  women  and  mothers  in  America  who 
are  subdued,  reserved,  and  cumbered  with  much  serv- 
ing; but  in  Europe,  the  two  positions  are  exactly 
reversed.  "  If  my  lot  were  to  be  cast  in  this  latitude," 
said  Juno  at  last,  "  I  should  pray  to  be  born  married." 
'A  cultivated  Frenchman,  after  long  observation  of  New 
York  life,  declared  that  he  could  not  see  why  Amer- 
ican girls  should  desire  to  marry,  for  they  had  under 
their  fathers'  roof  all  that  a  French  husband  looks  on 
as  material  wherewith  to  secure  a  wife's  love  and  hap- 
piness, namely,  jewels,  freedom,  and  importance.  He 
hud  not  perceived  that  the  love  of  change  will  out- 
weigh all  these.  Even  when  there  is  no  love  worth 
mentioning,  an  American  girl  goes  into  marriage  to 
seek  her  fortune  with  the  same  zest  and  interest  with 
which  a  young  man  seeks  his  in  a  new  country. 

A  young  Spanish  architect,  who  had  studied  life  and 
books  in  Germany,  France,  and  America,  asked  us  if 
there  was  any  law  in  our  country,  as  there  is  in  Ger- 
many, compelling  a  wife  to  go  with  her  husband  into  a 
new  country,  whether  she  wished  to  go  or  not.  We 
had  never  heard  of  such  a  law,  or  conceived  the  need 
of  one,  because  a  wife  would  naturally  desire  to  go 
with  her  husband.  "  Certainement,"  said  the  Spaniard, 
"'unless  she  liked  some  other  man."  "For  married 
women  in  America,"  we  answered  with  scorn,  "  there 
is  no  '  other  man^ "  He  answered  me  only  with  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders;  and  this  is  how  foreigners 
always  have  the  last  word.  They  seem  to  believe 
that  the  price  of  a  virtuous  woman  is  so  far  above 
rubies,  that  there  are  none  in  the  market. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  beauty  of  German 


A   WOA/AN'S   VACATION.  175 

girls  is  undermined  by  the  perpetual  drinking  of  beer 
and  the  sour  Rhenish  wine.  Yenus  de  Medici  would 
succumb  to  it  at  last,  and  grow  fat  and  sallow.  The 
wife  of  old  Richard  Baxter  said  she  did  not  find'  him 
so  sour  as  she  expected ;  but  nobody  ever  said  that  of 
"  vin  ordinaire,"  which  takes  the  place  of  our-  beloved 
ice-water.  There  are  institutions  in  Germany  called 
"  Wine-Cures,"  where  the  patients  are  fed  entirely  on 
these  sour  wines.  They  must  be  salutary,  since  one 
would  hasten  to  get  well  or  die,  to  escape  the  torture. 
So  many  Americans  have  come,  and  seen,  and  been 
conquered  in  Swiss  hotels,  that  there  has  come  to  be  a 
certain  home-likeness  about  them.  Only  the  waxed 
floors,  and  stone  staircases,  and  perhaps  a  fuchsia  stick- 
ing up  in  the  butter,  make  a  little  rim  of  strangeness 
in  the  most  familiar  things.  The  waiting-maids  wear 
the  picturesque  costume  of  their  nation  in  the  hotels, 
because  travellers  demand  it  of  them ;  but  their  Sun- 
day gowns  are  made  after  French  fashions.  There 
will  never  be  anything  prettier  than  the  bright  plaid 
skirt  and  velvet  jacket,  looped  with  silver  chains,  and 
opening  on  a  snowy  bodice ;  but  it  will  soon  have  dis- 
appeared from  the  face  of  the  earth.  Swiss  women 
would  rather  look  like  other  people  than  to  be  odd 
and  pretty.  Many  of  them  have  a  rich  color  in  their 
cheeks,  like  the  sunny  side  of  a -peach,  which  is  going 
out  of  fashion  in  other  countries. 

The  people  of  the  mountain  villages  are  lank  and 
tall,  with  high  cheek-bones  and  narrow  foreheads,  as  if 
they  had  stretched  themselves  with  continual  climbing. 
They  are  set  among  their  fine  scenery  like  groups  of 
exclamation  points. 


176  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

I  forgot  the  sunset  on  the  Jungfrau,  when  I  said 
there  was  nothing  to  see  in  Inteilaken.  The  "young 
maiden"  does  not  blush  every  night;  she  has  to  be 
watched  and  waited  for;  but  when  the  air  is  peculiarly 
clear  and  dry,  the  snow-peaks  turn  rose-pink  under  the 
last  glance  of  the  sinking  sun,  just  as  some  pale  faces 
put  on  a  mask  of  beauty  with  a  sudden  blush. 

One  evening  we  went  on  the  lake  with  the  crowd 
to  Geissbach,  to  see  the  fall  illuminated  with  colored 
lights,  which  is  a  good  deal  like  painting  the  lily,  and 
gilding  refined  gold. 

The  walk  is  severe  up  the  side  of  the  mountain  to  a 
point  near  the  hotel,  where  the  water  takes  a  long 
tumble  down  stairs,  several  flights  of  which  are  visible 
at  once.  Airy  little  bridges  are  thrown  over  them,  and 
the  most  romantic  walks  wind  about  them. 

Switzerland  would  be  the  loveliest  place  for  lovers 
if  so  many  had  not  already  found  it  out.  You  can 
scarcely  find  a  shady  place  in  the  whole  country  where 
you  will  not  interrupt  some  conscious  couple  in  their 
love-making.  My  window  in  the  hotel  commanded  a 
little  rustic  seat,  otherwise  hidden  from  view,  and  it 
comforted  my  soul  to  count  the  young  men  and  maid- 
ens that  found  their  way  to  it  in  the  course  of  a  long 
summer  day.  It  proved  that  love  was  not  gone  out 
of  fashion,  as  I  have  sometimes  feared. 

Hundreds  of  people  had  gathered  on  the  Geissbach 
terrace,  just  to  see  the  water  run  green  and  red  for  one 
little  minute  over  the  rocks.  It  was  beautiful  beyond 
words  while  it  lasted,  and  yet  it  was  taking  an  im- 
pertinent liberty  with  the  real  moon-lit  romance  of 
the  scene,  and  painfully  suggested  the  "Black  Crook," 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION,  177 

The  long  wailing  and  breathless  attention  of  so  many 
idle  people  reminded  me  of  a  fashionable  wedding, 
brought  to  pass  by  montlis  of  hard  labor,  which,  after 
all,  lasts  about  as  long  as  this  Geissbach  show.  When 
the  sudden  light  turned  night  into  day  on  the  crowded 
terrace,  an  army  of  braided  heads  rose  up  from  broad- 
cloth shoulders  as  if  pulled  by  one  wire.  Then  there 
was  a  great  rush  down  the  hill  for  places  on  the 
steamer,  and  a  solemn  sort  of  sail  for  an  hour  in  the 
moonlight,  shut  in  by  black  walls  of  rock.  The  in- 
fluence was  so  depressing,  that  I  kept  making  inward 
responses,  "Good  Lord,  deliver  us,  miserable  sinneis !" 
I  think  there  must  always  be  a  certain  grave  and 
sombre  twist  in  the  mind  of  one  brought  up  among 
mountains. 

Next  day  we  rode  to  the  Grindelwald,  a  valley 
frowned  down  by  bald-headed  and  hoary  mountains, 
with  two  glaciers  wedged  forever  between  them  in  an 
awful  depth  of  green  ice.  They  looked  very  near,  as 
if  one  could  almost  lay  a  hand  on  them ;  and  St. 
"Ursula,  whose  ambition  nothing  can  quench,  walked 
and  walked  for  more  than  an  hour  straight  towards 
them,  and  they  were  just  as  fir  oflf  as  ever. 

A  white  stieam  and  a  dark  one,  like  a  blonde  and 
brunette,  two  daughters  of  one  mother,  flow  out  of  the 
glacier,  and  tear  through  the  valley  as  if  they  never 
could  get  there  in  time.  When  we  crossed  the  little 
carved  bridges  that  span  them  at  frequent  intervals, 
the  narrow  current  of  chilly  air  always  rising  from  the 
water  struck  our  faces  like  an  ice-cold  hand.  This  was 
a  breath  from  the  frozen  heart  of  the  glacier. 

Wherever  there  is  a  bit  of  greensward  on  the 
12 


ri 


/ 


178  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

mountain -side,  some  times  so  high  up  as  to  be  almost 
out  of  sight,  there  are  sure  to  be  a  shepherd's  hut  and 
shelter  for  cattle.  A  bit  of  land  will  be  cultivated 
where  it  looks  as  if  a  man  would  have  to  be  let  down 
by  a  cord  in  order  to  hoe  it.  Not  a  bad  place  to  make 
way  with  an  enemy,  but  the  worst  in  the  world  for 
remorse. 

The  prettiest  daughter  of  Switzerland  in  the  shape 
of  a  waterfall  is  the  Staubbach  (brook  of  dust),  where 
the  desperate  water  throws  itself  off  a  cliff,  and  does 
not  touch  bottom  for  so  long  that  it  is  all  fretted  into 
such  a  cloud  of  dust  as  rises  around  carriage  wheels  in 
a  dry  day.  Its  gala-time  is  in  the  early  morning,  when 
the  new  sunshine  stripes  it  with  rainbows.  On  the 
way  we  pass  through  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen 
(nothing  but  springs).  Longfellow  calls  it  the  "  Val- 
ley of  Fountains-Only,"  where  the  rocks  are  piled  up 
so  high  that  one  looks  twice  to  see  the  top.  They  are 
in  the  shape  of  forts  and  castles,  that  look  hand-made, 
but  by  the  hands  of  giants.  We  were  caught  in  a 
thunder-storm,  in  which  not  only  the  springs,  but  the 
very  fountain  heads  were  broken  up  and  poured  upon 
us.  We  heard  the  giants  play  at  ninepins  down  the 
gorges,  as  Rip  Van  Winkle  did  in  the  Kaatskills. 
Sometimes  a  cloud  of  mist  hid  the  bases,  and  great 
masses  of  rock  seemed  to  roll  towards  us,  as  if  they 
hung  in  mid-air. 

It  was  a  "  fierce  and  fair  delight "  for  the  spirit,  if 
the  flesh  had  not  been  w«ak.  What  \vith  the  light- 
ning, and  the  floods,  and  the  fast  driving  over  break- 
neck places,  we  never  repented  of  so  many  sins  in  so 
short  a  time  in  our  lives. 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  179 

Some  people  get  up  an  intimacy  with  mountains  at 
first  sight ;  but  I  can  never  overcome  their  awfulness. 
The  Swiss  scenery  is  most  lovely  to  me  where  the 
Swiss  people  have  lived  and  died  bravely  to  defend  it. 

The  great  bald-headed  mountains,  with  snow  five 
hundred  feet  deep  about  their  peaks,  hiding  an  occa- 
sional skeleton,  do  no  good  to  anybody.  They  are 
just  useless  masses  of  raw  material  left  over  when  the 
world  was  made. 

Some  one  watching  through  a  glass  a  party  of  guides 
and  travellers  creeping  up  the  side  of  the  Jungfrau, 
like  a  company  of  ants,  saw  a  small  white  cloud  de- 
tach itself  from  above  and  float  lazily  downward  like  a 
handkerchief,  settling  on  the  black  specks.  The  place 
where  they  had  been  was  all  white,  and  the  valley 
knew  them  no  more. 

On  the  way  home  we  saw  a  ruined  tower,  which  is 
said  and  sworn  to  have  been  the  identical  castle  of 
Bluebeard,  where  Fatima  took  the  fiital  key,  and  threw 
daylight  on  the  other  wives,  while  Sister  Anne  kept 
her  post  on  the  tower  and  looked  for  clouds  of  dust. 


180  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SHORE   OP   LAKE   LEMAN, 

**  How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth ! 
And  now  again  'tis  black,  —  and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth." 

Byron. 

ANEW  thing  under  the  sun  carried  us  out  of 
Interlaken  —  rail-carriages  made  like  those  in 
America,  with  seats  on  top  and  an  awning  overhead. 
A  cool  and  royal  road  through  Swiss  scenery,  the 
track  skirts  the  lake  so  closely  that  we  seem  to  have 
faith  enough  to  roll  along  the  water  itself.  Then  the 
steamer  waited  for  us  on  the  Lake  of  Thnn,  which 
doubles  the  endless  vineyards  in  its  bosom,  and  is  too 
lar  from  the  sharp  and  snowy  "  Horns  "  to  be  depressed 
by  them.  The  shore  is  studded  with  country-seats,  so 
rich  in  iflowers  that  whole  hedges  of  them  are  crowded 
over  its  edge,  and  trail  along  the  water  in  indolent 
wealth. 

"Do  you  see  that  very  picturesque  young  man  who 
has  just  come  on  board?"  said  Psyche  to  Juno. 

"  No !     Where  ?  "  said  Juno. 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION  181 

"  O,  never  mind ;  I  see  he  isn't  mentioned  iu  the 
guide-book." 

At  Thun  we  took  cars  again,  and  crept  on  at  a  snail's 
pace —  a  habit  of  all  the  railroads  in  Switzerland,  out  of 
deference  to  the  fine  views.  It  is  taken  for  granted 
that  no  one  can  possibly  be  in  a  hurry,  and  the  train 
nearly  always  forgets  something  and  goes  back  for  it 
at  every  station.  At  Fribourg,  a  grand  gymnastic  fete 
for  all  the  Swiss  cantons  was  just  over,  and  the  station 
bloomed  with  the  party-colored  ribbons  of  the  wrestlers. 
The  winner  of  the  second  prize  —  a  wreath  of  painted 
oak  leaves  —  wore  it  on  his  uncovered  head,  and  was 
warmly  congratulated  by  his  friends.  The  young  men, 
as  a  rule,  looked  more  healthy  than  handsome. 

In  the  distance,  the  famous  suspension  bridge  of  Fri- 
bourg looked  like  quivering  braids  of  black  hair  thrown 
across  the  r.ivine  from  rock  to  rock. 

Berne  is  the  Swissest  of  all  Swiss  towns;  the  best 
part  of  it  is  built  on  a  natural  terrace  far  above  the 
roofs  of  the  lower  houses,  so  that  it  stands  like  a  lady 
on  her  balcony,  looking  down  at  the  green  river,  so  fir 
below  her  feet,  that  it  seems  to  stop  its  flow  to  look  up 
again  at  her. 

They  have  rows  of  little  booths  down  the  middle  of 
the  main  streets,  where  women  with  snowy  handker- 
chiefs on  their  heads  sell  evervthino:  to  all  other  women. 
The  business  looks  more  cheerful  than  profitable;  but 
having  no  rent  to  pay,  it  need  not  lie  heavy  on  their 
hearts. 

Every  fountain  has  a  row  of  devotees  in  the  busy 
washerwomen ;  and  the  oddest  statue  among  many  is 
an  ogre  copied  out  of  a  fairy  tale,  having  a  baby's  head 


182  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

and  shoulders  in  his  mouth,  with  the  chubby  legs  hang- 
ing out,  and  other  fat  morsels  in  the  shape  of  children 
stuck  in  his  pockets  and  belt. 

The  sidewalks  are  arcaded,  which  give  forth  a  faint 
reminder  of  sweet  old  English  Chester;  it  is  a  fashion, 
however,  which  cannot  fail  to  undermine  the  industry 
of  a  town,  making  loafing-places  for  people  that  would 
otherwise  exert  themselves  to  go  in  when  it  rained. 

The  houses  of  parliament  are  so  much  like  all  others 
in  second-rate  countries,  that  it  is  hardly  worth  getting 
out  of  one's  carriage  to  visit  them.  In  the  Chamber 
of  Assembly  every  speech  is  translated  into  German, 
French,  ^nd  Italian,  which  must  have  an  exasperating 
effect  on  the  maker  of  the  speech,  but  gives  to  other 
folks  an  opportunity  to  study  languages. 

In  the  cathedral  is  a  great  organ,  of  which  the  Bernese 

are  almost  as  proud  as  the  Bostonians  of  theirs:   it 

...  •  ^ 

plays  the  day  to  sleep  every  night  in  a  twilight  concert. 

The  cathedral,  like  all  others  which  were  once  Catholic 
and  have  seen  the  error  of  their  ways,  looks  a  little 
bare  and  lonely  for  want  of  its  pictures  and  images  of 
the  Mother  and  Child.  The  charm  of  it  lies  now  in 
the  old  churchyard,  converted  into  a  garden,  where 
nurses  and  children  play  over  the  bones  of  their  fore- 
fathers. 

Berne  is  the  headquarters  of  Beardom.  Everything 
that  can  be  done  by  man  is  imitated  by  bears  in  stone, 
and  wood,  and  metal.  It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  that 
the  population  have  a  bearish  turn  to  their  noses. 

The  curious  bear-dance,  painted  by  Beard,  which 
looked  odd  and  quaint  in  Boston,  is  a  very  good  picture 
of  Berne.    It  is  one  long  bear-dance,  on  every  gate-post, 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  183 

to  the  den  \vhere  several  live  bears  are  kept  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  city ;  they  attract  a  constant  crowd,  that 
feeds  them  with  carrots  and  fruit.  Baedeker,  the  apos- 
tle of  guide-books,  says  that  an  English  officer  once 
fell  into  the  den,  and  after  a  terrible  fight  with  the 
bears,  was  torn  in  pieces.  It  seems  to  me  that  when 
the  history  of  the  world  is  summed  up  by  the  last  man, 
it  will  be  found  that  whatever  was  not  done  by  an  Eng- 
lish officer  or  an  American  woman,  was  not  worth  doing 
at  all.  The  irrepressible  conflict  will  at  last  lie  between 
these  two. 

The  best-conducted  coachman  that  ever  drove  seven 
women,  put  the  whole  of  Berne  into  a  two-hours'  drive, 
bears  and  all,  and  drew  up  just  at  noon  in  front  of  the 
old  clock  on  the  watch-tower.  On  the  stroke  of  twelve 
a  troop  of  tiny  bears,  dressed  like  men,  on/oot  and  on 
horseback,  travel  round  old  Time  in  the  middle,  and  a 
main  in  armor  in  the  belfry  beats  the  time  on  a  bell; 
the  inevitable  rooster  on  one  side  flaps  his  wings  and 
crows  faintly  three  times. 

No  one  can  forget  the  ride  from  Berne  to  Lausanne, 
because  of  the  sudden  and  complete  revelation  of  the 
Lake  of  Geneva  just  after  passing  through  a  long  tun- 
nel. You  go  into  it  with  no  suspicion  of  anything 
about  to  happen,  and  you  shoot  out  of  pitchy  darkness 
into  the  sweet  light  of  heaven,  and  "  clear,  placid  Le- 
man  "  lies  at  your  feet.  It  is  one  of  Mother  Nature's 
surprises ;  the  ineflTable  glory  of  the  lake  bursts  on  the 
senses  like  glad  news  after  a  stretch  of  anxiety,  or  like 
heaven  after  a  wasting  sickness.  Lausanne  has  crept 
well  up  the  hill,  and  has  a  cleanly,  reserved  air,  like 
English  people,  with  whom  it  has  always  been  a  favorite 


184  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

town.  The  houses  keep  one  another  at  arm's  length, 
and  there  is  no  suspicion  of  the  Roman  fragrance  in 
its  streets. 

The  Hotel  Gibbon  and  its  terrace  look  on  the  lake, 
and  just  below  it,  in  the  garden,  is  the  same  summer- 
house,  or  its  successor,  in  which  Gibbon  wrote  the  last 
sentences  of  his  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Em- 
pire. He  was  sent  to  Switzerland  in  his  youth  to 
complete  his  studies,  and  regain  the  Protestantism  that 
he  had  somehow  lost,  and  there  fell  in  love  with  Made- 
moiselle Curchon ;  but,  his  father  threatening  to  disin- 
herit him  if  he  married  her,  he  dutifully  and  selfishly 
gave  her  up.  She  married  M.  Necker,  minister  of 
Louis  XVI.,  and  became  the  mother  of  Madame  de 
Staiil.  In  these  matronly  days  Gibbon  met  her  again, 
basked  in  \\^x  bright  society,  and  wondered,  man-like, 
that  M.  Necker  was  not  in  the  least  jealous. 

If  the  portraits  of  Gibbon  do  him  justice,  no  one 
need  wonder  at  M.  Necker's  tranquillity ;  but  there  was 
another  reason  equally  apparent  to  the  student  of  wo- 
man-kind. I  suppose  one  may  have  wit  enough  to  fol- 
low the  Roman  empire  down  hill,  and  yet  not  enough 
to  perceive  that  no  husband  of  a  fine  woman  has  any 
cause  to  fear  an  old  suitor,  who  once  preferred  his  in- 
heritance to  her  lov^. 

On  the  terrace  at  the  Hotel  Gibbon,  two  Spanish 
ladies,  with  all  the  dark  and  glowing  beauty  of  their 
nation,  sat  through  the  twilight  smoking  fat  little  ciga- 
rettes till  they  veiled  themselves  in  a  halo  of  smoke. 
They  had  their  rights  in  a  way  that  American  women 
have  forgotten  to  fight  for ;  and  they  got  more  comfort 
out  of  it  than  Miss  Anthony  ever  did  in  addressing  a 
convention. 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION,  185 

The  Hotel  Gibbon  has  his  portrait  below,  and  in  the 
bedrooms  a  placard  urgmg  travellers  to  keep  Sunday 
piously,  and  to  remember  that  they  have  special  need 
of  divine  care  in  their  wanderings.  Gibbon  spent  his 
whole  life 

"Sapping  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn 'sneer,'* 

and  saw  no  beauty  in  Christianity  that  any  one  should 
desire  it. 

The  port  of  Lausanne  is  Ouchy,  where  Byron  wa§ 
once  weather-bound,  and  wrote  the  Prisoner  of  Chil- 
lon.  The  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold  and  Manfred 
were  also  written  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Leman,  "  com- 
posed," as  he  says,  in  a  letter,  "  when  I  was  half  mad 
between  mountains,  metaphysics,  lakes,  loves  unquench- 
able, thoughts  unutterable,  and  the  nightmare  of  my 
own  delinquencies ; "  quite  material  enough  for  a  vol->» 
ume  of  poetry. 

The  castle  of  Chillon,  a  lion  whose  roar  would  never 
have  been  heard  out  of  Switzerland  but  for  Byron's 
poem,  is  much  lovelier  in  pictures  than  in  the  solid 
stone  and  mortar.  Byron's  prisoner  was  an  imaginary 
one,  as  he  had  not  then  studied  the  life  of  Bonnivard ; 
he  said  afterwards  that  he  would  otherwise  have  digni- 
fied the  poem  with  patriotic  allusions ;  but  sorrow  and 
captivity  have  dignity  enough  of  their  own.  A  little 
bridge  connects  the  castle  with  the  main  land,  and  it  was 
long  the  torture-house  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy  (ancestor 
of  Victor  Emanuel)  for  Swiss  prisoners.  The  dun- 
geons are  lighted  only  by  slits  in  a  wall  twenty  feet  thick. 
Bonnivard,  a  famous  patriot  among  men  who  were  all 
patriots,  was  chained  to  a  pillar  five  years,  and  his  rest- 


186  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

less  feet  wore  a  visible  welt  in  the  stone,  like  a  scar  on 
flesh. 

**  My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends." 

The  poem  speaks  of  "  a  little  isle  that  smiled  on  him  " 
through  the  hole  in  the  wall,  but  it  was  only  by  climb- 
ing the  pillar  that  he  could  see  it  at  all.  The  "seven 
pillars  of  Gothic  mould'*  are  all  there.  Byron's  poetry 
is  often  as  good  as  a  guide-book. 

The  guide  lights  a  match  to  show  the  rough  stairway 
down  which  prisoners  were  brought  to  exeeution,  and 
the  beam  to  which  they  were  hung.  The  air  was  thick 
with  memories  of  the  many  unhappy  souls  that  had 
dropped  the  body  in  that  spot,  and  gone  up  "to  appeal 
from  tyranny  to  God."  Farther  on  is  the  hole  to  which 
prisoners  were  led  blindfold,  and  promised  their  liberty; 
they  went  down  three  or  four  steps,  and  then  came  a 
plunge  of  eighty-four  feet  into  the  waters  of  the  lake. 
They  got  their  liberty  forever;  but  let  us  hope  that 
when  the  Duke  of  Savoy  serves  out  his  term  of  punish- 
ment hereafter,  it  may  be  well  peppered  with  sarcasms. 

One  author,  named  Simond,  says,  "  It  grieves  me  to 
contradict  poets  or  sentimental  travellers,  but  really  the 
dungeon  of  Chillon  is  not  under  water,  and  besides,  is 
absolutely  a  comfortable  sort  of  dungeon  enough,  full 
forty  feet  long  and  fifteen  feet  high,  with  several  narrow 
slits  in  the  thick  wall,  above  reach,  but  admitting  air 
and  light,  and  even  some  rays  of  the  sun !" 

Where  could  this  man  Simond  have  been  brought 
up?  Was  he  born  in  the  cellar  of  a  tenement-house 
in  New  York,  which  might  occasionally  be  under  water? 
and  was  his  maturity  spent  in  stone-cutting  in  state 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  187 

prison  ?  No  other  experience  could  have  given  a  com- 
fortable air  to  Bonnivard's  dungeon.  The  long-suffer- 
ing Swiss  took  the  castle  at  last,  and  in  their  joy  they 
freed  all  the  prisoners,  and  placed  over  the  door  the 
inscription,," Blessed  be  all  who  come  in  and  go  out." 
Afterwards,  when  this  island  prison  was  found  too 
tempting  a  convenience  for  keeping  some  prisoners  of 
their  own,  they  erased  the  inscription  for  the  sake  of 
consistency. 

The  shore  of  the  lake,  on  the  way  from  Chillon  to 
Vevay,  is  dotted  with  villages  that  have  long  been  the 
adopted  children  of  poetry. 

**  Clarens,  sweet  Clarens,  birthplace  of  deep  love," 

was  the  home  of  the  "  divine  Julie,"  Rousseau's  heroine 
in  his  Nouvelle  Heloise  —  the  most  voluptuous  book 
that  it  ever  entered  even  a  Frenchman's  head  to  con- 
ceive. It  has  been  supposed  that  Rousseau  chose 
Clarens  as  the  scene  of  his  novel  more  for  the  beauty 
of  its  name  than  anything  else,  as  it  is  scarcely  so  beau- 
tiful as  its  neighbors.  "  A  pity  'tis,  'tis  true,"  that  poets 
have  their  necessities  as  well  as  others. 

Cleanliness  is  farther  from  godliness  in  Switzerland 
than  with  us,  since  Thursday  seems  to  be  their  wash- 
ing day.  On  this  particular  Thursday,  the  lake  shore 
was  lined  for  miles  with  snowy  linen  spread  to  dry  in 
the  sun  after  having  been  washed  in  the  lake.  The 
washerwomen  anchor  their  great  tubs  just  in  the  edge 
of  the  lake ;  then  they  put  themselves  in  the  tub  and 
the  soiled  clothes  in  the  lake.  The  farther  one  goes 
from  home,  the  more  one  sees  the  commonest  things 
turned  inside  out,  and  begun  at  the  other  end.     No 


/ 


188  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

wonder  that  the  first  traveller  who  wrote  of  what  he 
saw  was  called  the  "  father  of  lies." 

Vevay  is  another  half-way  house  for  travellers,  full 
of  hotels  and  pensions,  like  Interlaken ;  it  is  a  colony 
of  foreigners,  with  a  rich  sprinkling  of  Americans. 
That  treasure  to  his  travelling  countrymen,  an  Ameri- 
can dentist,  has  been  long  settled  there,  and  a  little 
experience  with  foreign  artists  in  that  profession  gives 
emphasis  to  the  remark  of  a  German  to  us  —  "The 
Americans  give  strength  to  dentistry." 

The  Hotel  Monnet,  or  "  Three  Crowns,"  was  as  de- 
lightful as  flowers,  and  gilding,  and  summer-time  could 
make  it.  In  the  airy  dining-room,  opening  on  the  lake, 
furnished  with  white  and  gold,  we  saw  our  travelling 
dresses,  which  had  sustained  three  months'  ravages, 
reflected  in  the  eyes  of  our  jewelled  and  furbelowed 
countrywomen,  and  were  ashamed.  "The  body  is  the 
shell  of  the  soul ;  the  apparell  is  the  huske  of  that  shell, 
and  the  huske  often  tells  you  what  the  kernel  is,"  says 
old  Quarles.  It  is  a  feeling  worse  than  neuralgia,  and 
akin  to  seasickness,  when  hundreds  of  feminine  eyes 
are  judging  your  soul  by  a  dusty  and  weather-stained 
alpaca  "huske."  The  fitness  of  things  demanded  in  such 
a  place  that  we  should  wear  rainbow  silks,  and  feed 
only  on  nightingales'  tongues  and  peacocks'  brains. 
One  may  travel  comfortably  with  only  a  bag,  and  stay 
one's  soul  with  common  sense  for  ninety-nine  days  out 
of  a  hundred ;  but  on  the  hundredth,  one  is  sure  to  go 
to  some  Aladdin's  palace,  where  even  religious  princi- 
ple is  not  so  sustaining  as  a  well-made  dress. 

We  arrived  just  after  a  wedding  in  church  between 
an  American  girl  and  a  German  baron,  and  the  wed- 


A   WOMAN *S  VACATION.  189 

ding  breakfast  was  going  on  with  all  the  flutter  that  a 
wedding  creates  in  every  country  under  the  sun.  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  if  there  is  no  raaiTying  or 
giving  in  marriage  in  the  next  world,  what  a  stupid 
place  it  will  be  for  women !  Everybody  had  been  to 
the  wedding,  and  bore  testimony  that  the  bride  cried 
till  her  nose  was  red  ;  the  bride's  mother  cried  too,  and 
the  bridegroom's  father  cried  hardest ^f  all.  As  it  is 
said  to  be  a  pure  love  match,  with  no  money  on  either 
side,  the  old  gentleman  may  have  had  the  best  reason 
to  cry. 

It  is  a  long  sail  from  Yevay  to  Geneva ;  the  moun- 
tains on  one  side  hold  their  skirts  far  back  from  the 
shore,  and  the  lake  lies  a  perpetual  smile  on  Nature's 
face,  pure  and  grand  near  Lausanne,  but  only  good- 
natured  till  we  approach  Geneva,  and  Mont  Blanc 
heaves  its  ice-peaks  into  sight  like  a  great  white  cloud 
that  has  been  anchored  forever  in  one  spot  in  the  sky. 

Lake  Leman  is  just  as  lovely  as  Byron  said  it  was; 
he  is  always  to  be  depended  upon  in  the  way  of  adjec- 
tives ;  but  it  is  too  perfect  to  be  altogether  interesting, 
like  people  whose  character  is  above  criticism.  Defects 
in  a  landscape  are  like  small  faults  in  our  friends,  a  sort 
of  milestones  on  which  to  measure  our  admiration. 

Coppet,  seen  from  the  lake,  was  Madame  do  Stael's 
refuge  when  Napoleon  banished  her  from  her  beloved 
France.*  She  amused  herself  well,  however,  by  marry- 
ing a  young  man  for  love  in  her  middle  age. 


190  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

**  The  bent  of  civilization  is  to  make  good  things  cheap.*' 

GENEVA  is  mistress  of  her  lake.  Its  waters, 
striped  with  many  shades  of  blue,  make  another 
sky  beneath  her  feet ;  at  night  the  city  lights  on  the 
bridges,  shining  far  down  into  the  clear  water,  seem  to 
disclose  hollow  caves  where  water-nymphs  and  mer- 
maids toss  about  the  rings  and  bracelets  which  delight 
the  eyes  of  mortals  in  the  daytime ;  every  shop  win- 
dow has  a  fringe  of  ladies  hanging  about  it  as  if  it  held 
their  household  gods. 

One  window  of  a  plain  little  shop  on  the  Grand  Quai 
would  beguile  the  strongest-minded  woman  that  ever 
had  a  mission,  or  addressed  a  convention ;  pearls,  and 
diamonds,  ^nd  emeralds  lie  about  loosely,  as  if  they 
might  be  had  for  the  asking,  —  a  delusion  speedily  dissi- 
pated when  one  does  ask ;  there  are  diamond  ear-rings 
that  would  be  like  carriage  lamps  on  a  woman's  head 
in  the  darkest  night ;  turquoises  such  as  Shylodi  would 
not  have  parted  with  ''for  a  wilderness  of  monkeys;" 
and  rubies  glowing  with  such  a  fiery  radiance  that  one 
could  almost  believe,  with  the  ancients,  that  they  could 
feel  impending  misfortune  and  grow  dull  in  sympa- 
thy.   In  Sir  Thomas  More's  Utopia,  only  children  and 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  191 

criminals  were  permitted  to  wear  jewels,  in  order  that 
no  one  need,  desire  them ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  his 
wisdom  overreached  itself,  since  many  foolish  souls 
would  have  become  criminals  for  the  sake  of  obtaining 
their  hearts'  delight. 

It  was  an  old  superstition  that  the  emerald,  with  cold 
and  clear  green  light,  preserved  chastity,  and  drove  off 
evil  spiiits;  it  specially  belongs  to  those  born  in  June, 
and  changes  color  with  the  moods  of  its  owner.  An 
old  Persian  writer  says,  "  He  who  dreams  of  green 
gems  will  become  renowned,  and  find  truth  and 
fidelity."  The  sudden  fall  of  an  emerald  from  its  set- 
ting portends  great  loss;  a  large  emerald  fell  from  the 
English  crown  at  the  coronation  of  George  III.,  and 
when  America  seceded  in  his  reign  some  old  woman 
remembered  the  emerald.  Opals  are  like  expressive 
faces  which  never  look  twice  alike,  and,  like  some  char- 
acters, owe  all  their  beauty  to  a  defect  in  their  organ- 
ization ;  it  has  been  well  called  "a  pearl  with  a  soul  in 
it."  The  turquoise  means  self-sacrificing  love,  and 
reconciles  quarrelsome  couples;  which  would  seem  to 
recommend  it  as  a  betrothal  ring.  It  draws  approach- 
ing trouble  into  itself,  growing  dull  and  apparently 
worthless  till  the  danger  is  past ;  but  this  trait  only 
belongs  to  it  when  given,  not  when  bought.  The 
topaz  heightened  wit,  and  strengthened  the  intellect 
—  fables  pretty  in  themselves,  and  showing  that  pre- 
cious stones  have  always  exercised  a  weird  influence 
on  the  imaorination. 

One  may  resolve  to  rise  above  the  fascination  of  such 
earthly  dross  and  tinsel,  just  as  one  may  resolve  against 
the  toothache,  or  seasickness,  or  love,  or  any  other  of 


/ 


192  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

the  torments  of  this  world ;  and  the  resolve  holds  good 
till  one's  time  comes. 

**  For  not  to  desire,  or  admire,  if  a  man  could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day,  like  a  sultan  of  old,  in  a  garden  of  spice." 

Lord  Byron  lived  at  Geneva  for  a  few  weeks,  and 
complains  bitterly  that,  though  he  lived  a  virtuous  life, 
he  got  no  credit  for  it ;  to  him  virtue  was  never  its  own 
reward. 

Calvin,  the  head  saint  of  the  Genevan  calendar,  lived 
a  virtuous  life,  and  got  too  much  credit  for  it ;  when  the 
people  drove  out  the  Roman  Catholic  bishop,  and  bowed 
their  necks  to  Calvin's  yoke,  they  fell  out  of  the  frying- 
pan  into  the  fire,  or  off  of  Scylla  into  Charybdis,  ac- 
cording as  one  is  housewifely  or  classical.  The  bishop 
occasionally  made  a  bonfire  of  a  heretic,  but  he  gave 
the  survivors  plenty  of  cakes  and  ale  to  make  up  for  it. 
Calvin  burned  heretics  too,  but  without  the  cakes  and 
ale.  His  old  chair,  hard  and  straight-backed  as  his 
doctrine,  is  still  standing  in  the  cathedral.  He  ruled 
the  city  with  a  paternal  (one  might  say  with  a  step- 
paternal)  severity.  He  laid  every  Genevese  soul  on 
his  own  Procrustean  bed,  and  cut  it  off  or  stretched  it 
out  till  it  came  to  his  measure.  His  throne  was  his 
pulpit,  and  his  code  of  laws  finally  crystallized  into 
that  spiky  old  creed,  against  which  tender  souls  bruise 
themselves  to  this  day.  As  religious  wars  are  always 
the  bloodiest,  so  religious  rule  is  the  most  tyrannical. 
Men  are  never  so  outrageously  wicked  as  when  they 
think  they  have  God's  warrant  for  it. 

Calvin  was  perpetually  hurling  inkstands  at  the  devil, 
but  he  resembled  him  in  that  he  made  Geneva  thq 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  193 

hottest  place  for  sinners  that  the  world  has  evCr  seen. 
He  was  not  one  of  those  who  preach 

**  With  about  as  much  real  edification 
As  if  a  great  Bible,  bound  in  lead, 
Had  fallen  and  struck  them  on  the  head ;  '* 

his  words  pierced  between  bone  and  marrow,  and  he 
weeded  the  city,  for  his  hfetime,  of  all  unrighteous- 
ness ;  it  sprang  up  again,  of  course,  after  his  death,  but 
moraHty  is. still  the  fashion  in  Geneva. 

The  Canton  of  Geneva  is  the  smallest  in  Switz;erland, 
—  only  fifteen  miles  broad, —  and  its  arch-enemy,  Vol- 
taire, said,  "When  I  shake  my  wig,  I  powder  the  whole 
republic;"  but  it  has  always  made  a  prodigious  noise 
in  the  world.  Voltaire  lived  there  like  a  prince,  and 
coined  a  new  sarcasm  every  day  for  the  scathing  of 
the  pious  city.  He  had  a  look  of  the  eagle  and  the 
monkey,  sensitive,  irritable,  sarcastic,  and  yet  benevo- 
lent.    Pope  crystallized  him  in  an  epigram :  — 

**  Thou  art  so  witty,  profligate,  and  thin, 
At  once  we  think  thee  Milton,  death,  and  sin." 

Rousseau  was  another  thorn  in  Calvin's  flesh ;  he 
sits  placidly  enough,  a  very  mild-looking  man,*  on  his 
pedestal  on  the  little  island  in  the  lake  called  by  his 
name,  while  Calvin  was  too  lofly  in  his  humility  to  per- 
mit even  a  tombstone  to  bear  his  name. 

It  was  given  to  Rousseau  to  put  forward  the  pre- 
posterous idea,  for  the  first  time,  in  a  book  called  the 
Social  Contract,  that  there  was  a  mutual  obligation 
constantly  incurred  between  the  aristocracy  and  the 


194  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

people ;  with  this  fact  established,  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  the  nobility  of  all  Europe  were  teriibly  in  arrears. 
Calvin  burned  the  book  for  its  infidelity,  which  hurt 
nobody,  while  its  politics  sowed  broadcast  the  red  seeds 
of  the  French  Revolution. 

It  must  have  been  a  good  thing  for  an  author  to  have 
an  obnoxious  book  burned  in  the  market-place ;  for,  of 
course,  the  crowd  who  had  not  heard  of  it  before,  made 
haste  to  read  it  at  once.  Rousseau  wrote  "  Emile,"  a 
famous  treatise  on  education,  in  which  he  insists  on 
teaching  by  experience ;  the  child  should  be  allowed  to 
find  out  that  fiie  is  hurtful  by  burning  himself,  and  that 
glass  will  cut  his  flesh  by  driving  his  fist  through  the 
window  in  a  fit  of  temper.  He  does  not  go  so  far  as 
to  say  that  he  should  find  out  the  danger  of  a  ju'ecipice 
by  throwing  himself  over  it,  though  that  would  be  the 
natural  inference.  In  these  latter  days,  Mr.  Herbert 
Spencer  and  others  have  revamped  this  theory,  and 
made  it  look  actually  presentable,  but  it  would  gradu- 
ally eliminate  mother-love  from  the  training  of  children. 
V^oltaire  said  of  it,  "  When  I  read  your  treatise,  I  desire 
to  creep  on  all-fours." 

Rousseau  knew  best,  perhaps,  of  all  word-artists  who 
ever  lived,  how  to  paint  every  shade  of  love  and  senti- 
ment, and  yet  dropped  his  own  children  into  the  basket 
of  the  Foundling  Hospital  as  soon  as  they  were  born. 

The  chief  apostle  of  Geneva,  just  now,  is  Father 
Hyacinthe,  otherwise  the  Rev.  Charles  Loyson  (Hya- 
cinthe  being  his  monkish  name,  assumed  on  taking  the 
vows).  He  preaches  in  a  dingy  old  hall,  formerly  a 
library,  founded  by  Bonnivard,  and  used  by  Calvin ;  it 
is  filled  with  hard  beaches  without  backs,  and  a  large 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  195 

proportion  of  the  audience  is  always  American.  It 
was  evident  that  many  of  them  could  not  understand 
his  words,  but  if  one  had  been  born  deaf,  one  could 
still  follow  a  dim  meaning  through  the  eloquence  into 
which  he  coins  his  fiery  heart.  He  makes  one  "  hear 
with  eyes."  He  wore  a  white  robe  embroidered  with 
silver,  and  a  broad  chasuble,  white  and  crimson,  with  a 
shining  cross  on  it;  he  would  be  a  distinguished-look- 
ing man  anywhere,  but  in  white,  and  silver,  and  crim- 
son, he  is  very  noble  indeed,  having  that  two-storied 
head  of  which  Sir  Walter  Scott's  was  a  type. 

The  mass  was  much  shorter  than  in  other  Catholic 
churches,  and  was  performed  with  so  much  devotion 
and  earnestness  that  one  saw  only  the  service,  and  not 
the  priest,  till  the  sermon  began.  The  burden  of  it 
was  charity.  He  began  with  an  urgent  appeal  in  be- 
half of  some  poor  families  who  had  been  burned  out  in 
Geneva  the  night  before,  and  lost  their  all.  "We  have 
prayed  to  God  to  give  us  charity;  let  us  look  to  it  that 
we  do  not  shut  our  heart's  door  in  the  face  of  the  answer 
to  our  i)rayer  when  it  comes."  Afterwards  he  urged 
that  all  true  religion  was  founded  on  charity  in  the 
sense  of  love. 

Tiie  Protestant  faith  says,  "Only  believe,"  which  is  a 
partial  and  sometimes  dangerous  truth,  for  it  may  end 
in  a  mere  sentimental  tenderness  that  serves  neither 
God  nor  men;  the  Catholic  church  lelies  on  works 
which  may  end  in  rites  and  superstitious  observances ; 
but  the  "Old  Catholic"  creed  is  founded  on  our  Lord's 
immediate  teaching,  embodied  in  this  rule:  "Thou 
shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  strength," 
&c.,  "and  thy  neighbor  as  thyself."     One  could  obey 


196  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

the  first  commanc!  without  the  second,  but  one  could 
never  arrive  at  the  second  without  the  first.  There 
are  two  doors  into  heaven,  love  and  faith ;  St.  John 
opens  the  first,  and  St.  Paul  the  second.  Father  Hya- 
cinthe  preferred  to  go  in  by  St.  John's  door. 

lie  has  a  dark,  oval  face,  somewhat  too  overladen 
with  flesh,  until  he  waxes  earnest,  and  the  hidden  fire 
of  his  deep-set  black  eyes  flames  out.  It  did  so  many 
times,  as  he  dwelt  on  his  love  for  the  mother  church 
that  had  nourished  him  in  its  bosom,  and  on  the  abuse 
now  poured  out  on  him  by  his  old  brethren.  One  of 
them  had  called  liim,  in  a  Catholic  journal,  "  a  misera- 
ble foreign  apostate." 

"It  is  true,"  he  said,  "T  am  most  miserable,  not  only 
for  my  sins,  as  others  are,  but  for  my  sufferings."  It 
must  be  a  tremendous  change  to  him  from  preaching 
in  the  "Madeleine,"  in  Paris,  to  the  most  sj^lendid  con- 
gregation in  Europe,  followed  by  adulation  of  the  most 
delicious  kind,  and  now  standing  in  the  face  of  slander 
to  preach  a  doctrine  despised  by  all  his  old  friends,  and 
listened  to  chiefly  by  strangers  and  aliens  out  of  curi- 
osity. I  suppose,  however,  there  is  a  sweetness  in  vol- 
untary martyrdom  only  known  to  those  who  try  it,  and 
I  hope  the  tender  arms  of  his  baby-son  ward  oflf  many 
evil  strokes.  Madame  Loyson  has  a  sweet,  motherly 
face,  but  is  not  handsome.  She  was  a  rich  American 
widow  when  Father  Hyacinthe  married  her,  but  became 
poor  in  the  failure  of  Bowles  Brothers,  a  stroke  follow- 
ing close  upon  his  marriage,  which  made  a  sweet  morsel 
under  the  tongues  of  his  enemies. 

From  this  mo;lest  "upper  chamber"  we  went  over 
the  hill  to  the  Russian  church,  a  square  stone  building 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION  197 

surmounted  by  1[iwe  large  balls,  gilded  and  glittering  in 
the  sun  ;'  -these  balls  signify  the  world,  and  on  them 
rests  the  crescent,  with  crosses  rising  triumphantly 
above  them,  showing  that  the  Christian  religion  has 
overcome  that  of  Mahomet.  The  interior  is  glorious 
with  pictures  and  precious  stones.  The  audience 
stands  through  the  service,  which  is  never  long,  as  there 
is  no  sermon.  A  single  bench  runs  along  the  side  for 
strangers.  Only  one  lady  occasionally  used  a  camp- 
chair.  She  was  dressed  entirely  in  white,  a  long  cash- 
mere robe,  and  fleecy  Shetland  shawl,  with  a  bonnet 
and  long  veil  of  white  crape;  two  great  diamonds 
hung  from  her  ears  like  drops  of  dew ;  her  face  was 
fair  and  peaceful,  and  every  few  minutes  she  sank  grace- 
fully on  her  knees,  and  bent  her  forehead  to  the  floor  in 
a  great  snowy  heap.  The  Russians  use  black  for  mourn- 
ing, as  we  do;  but  on  the  occasion  of  a  birthday  of  the- 
one  whom  they  mourn,  or  for  a  wedding,  they  have  this 
lovely  fashion  of  putting  on  pure  white.  No  instru- 
ment of  music  is  permitted  in  the  Greek  church,  and 
the  hymns  were  sung  by  four  men.  Two  golden 
screens,  with  paintings  of  the  angel  holding  out  a 
branch  of  lilies  to  the  Virgin,  shut  in  the  altar-room 
and  the  priest  from  the  gaze  of  the  people ;  but  after  a 
time  these  doors  were  opened,  and  the  priest  came  out 
muttering  prayers  over  and  over,  and  swinging  a  cen- 
ser. In  the  Greek  churches,  the  service  of  the  com- 
munion is  performed  by  the  priest  alone,  out  of  sight, 
and  the  bread  and  wine  are  only  shown  to  the  people. 
He  wore  a  gorgeous  robe  of  blue  and  gold  brocade,  and 
did  his  part  with  an  impressive  seriousness;  but  his 
audience  were  at  one  moment  striking  their  foreheads 


198  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

on  the  ground  and  crossing  themselves,  and  at  the  next 
shaking  hands  with  one  another  and  walking  about 
from  friend  to  friend.  The  best-conducted  person  on 
the  premises  was  a  baby  about  two  years  old,  prema- 
turely draped  in  jacket  and  trousers,  who  might  have 
been  an  example  to  us  all  in  devout  manners.  At  the 
last,  the  [)riest  brought  out  a  cross,  and  all  the  men, 
women,  and  children  crowded  about  him  to  kiss  it.  It 
seemed  to  bring  the  whole  multitude,  rich  and  poor, 
refined  and  sordid,  suddenly  on  a  level;  and  against  my 
will,  I  felt  a  Protestant  disgust. 

The  broad  steps  on  which  the  priest  stood  were  car- 
peted with  worsted-work,  and  on  each  side  stood  tall 
banners  of  velvet  and  gold,  studded  with  gems;  the 
service  was  in  the  Sclavonic  language,  nowhere  spoken 
at  this  time  except  in  church,  but  all  Russians  learn  it. 
The  air  was  heavy  with  incense,  and  the  brilliant  colors 
reminded  one  of  the  temple  that  Solomon  built  after 
God's  own  pattern  —  there  was  no  lack  of  solemnity 
and  prostration,  but,  somehow,  one  kept  wondering  how 
one  got  in  without  a  ticket. 

The  priests  of  the  Russian  or  Greek  church  cannot 
be  priests  until  they  are  married,  nor  can  they  have  but 
one  wife;  when  she  dies  they  become  monks;  hence 
it  follows,  that  the  wives  of  Greek  priests  are  nearly  as 
well  treated  as  the  wives  of  good  Americans.  A  trav- 
eller in  Russia  found  a  priest  doing  the  family  washing 
to  save  his  wife's  bones.  A  similar  rule,  if  it  could  be 
introduced  among  the  Protestant  clergy,  would  prolong 
the  life  of  many  a  feeble  w^oman  who  is  now  cumbered 
with  much  serving.  .It  is  founded  on  that  text  about 
a  bishop's  having  one  wife ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  a 


A    WOMAN* S  VACATION.  199 

Russian  priest,  outside  his  church,  has  no  position,  nor 
can  exact  any  deference.  Among  the  best  families,  his 
place  is  "  below  the  salt,"  as  the  fashion  was  in  the  old 
English  time  when  the  parson  and  the  lady's  maid  were 
thought  a  good  match.  The  peasants  pay  him  no  re- 
spect, and  his  best  protection  is  to  carry  the  sacrament 
on  his  person;  he  then  becomes  sacred,  and  even  a 
noble  who  should  abuse  him  would  be  doomed  to  Si- 
beria. Since  Peter  the  Great  humbled  the  patriarch 
by  taking  church  appointments  into  his  own  hands., 
Russian  veneration  has  been  spent  on  religion  itself, 
and  not  on  its  ministers,  so  that  they  can  never  split 
on  the  rock  of  anybody's  infallibility,  as  the  old  and 
new  Catholics  have  done  lately. 

The  Russian  ladies,  in  the  little  Genevan  church,  had 
peculiarly  intelligent  faces,  many  of  them  of  great  deli- 
cacy of  profile.  As  I  watched  them,  my  thoughts  went 
back  to  that  first  Christian  woman  of  their  race  in  the 
twelfth  century,  the  Grand  Duchess  Olga,  to  whom  they 
owe  their  beautiful  service.  That  famous  old  rajah, 
who  always  asked,  "Who  is  she?"  when  anything  bad 
happened,  was  right  as  far  as  he  went;  but  the  ques- 
tion is  equally  pertinent  when  good  things  come  about 
strangely. 

This  Christian  Olga  could  not  convert  her  husband, 
nor  her  son ;  but  the  seed  fell  on  good  ground,  at  last, 
in  her  grandson,  Vladimir,  who  wearied  of  paganism, 
and  sent  embassies  to  Mecca,  Constantinople,  and 
Rome,  to  look  into  other  folks'  religions,  and  bring 
home  the  best.  The  Greek  form  found  favor  in  their 
eyes  from  its  magnificent  ceremonies  —  the  rude  Rus- 
sian visitors  actually  mistook  some  of  the  white-robed 


200  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

priests  for  angels,  and  were  not  undeceived  by  their 
entertainers.  Vladimir  and  all  his  subjects  were 
straightway  baptized  ;  and  so  difficult  was  it  to  find 
Christian  names  for  such  multitudes  that  whole  squad- 
rons received  one  name,  thus  creating  a  thousand  Johns 
and  Peters  in  a  moment.  No  woman  coidd  ask  a  nobler 
monument  through  all  time  than  a  great  Christian  na- 
tion, but  other  honors  are  constantly  paid  to  her  name ; 
in  the  Russian  royal  family  there  is  always  a  Grand 
Duchess  Olsja. 

The  "  arrowy  Rhone "  throws  itself,  all  dusty  and 
travel-stained  from  its  mountain  journey,  into  Lake 
Leman,  at  Bouveret,  and  rushes  out  again  at  Geneva 
as  if  it  were  tired  to  death  of  stillness  and  placidity, 
but  it  comes  out  pure  and  clear  as  an  Alpine  crystal. 
It  is  so  terribly  clear,  so  utterly  transparent,  that  there 
is  no  temptation  to  drown  one's  self,  or  anybody  else, 
in  its  waters;  one  can  almost 'count  the  blades  of  grass 
on  the  bottom  of  the  lake. 

Rows  of  women  in  the  washing-sheds,  which  are  built 
into  the  middle  of  the  stream,  beat  it  all  day  with  their 
linen,  and  fret  its  headlong  course  a  little ;  one  will  be 
wringing  a  blue  blouse,  and  the  next  below  her  an  em- 
broidered handkerchief,  but  no  drop  of  water  stays  long 
enough  to  be  used  twice  ;  they  have  no  need,  either,  to 
blue  their  clothes ;  nature  has  done  that  for  them  in 
the  sapphire  color  of  the  river.  It  never  ceases  its 
hurry  till  it  meets  the  Arve,  and  they  join  hands  in  a 
loveless  wedding,  the  blue  stream  and  the  muddy  one 
running  side  by  side  for  a  long  distance,  till  at  last  the 
whole  soul  of  the  Rhone  is  corrupted,  the  two  rivers 
become  one,  and  that  one  is  the  dirty  Arve. 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  201 

"  Thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day, 
What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay, 
As  tlie  husband  is,  the  wife  is  :  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee 
down." 

The  meeting  of  thesd  two  rivers  is  such  an  obvious 
example  of  evil  communication  corrupting  good  man- 
ners that  the  wayfaring  man,  though  a  fool,  cannot  help 
reading  the  lesson;  and  as  a  large  proportion  of  way- 
farers are  clergymen,  the  Arve  and  the  Rhone  have 
moistened  many  a  dry  sermon.  Pitt  made  them  flow 
through  one  of  his  most  famous  speeches,  comparing 
them  to  a  cabinet  formed  of  good  and  bad  ministers, 
which  finally  became  unanimously  bad. 

A  few  miles  out  of  Geneva,  one  of  the  Barons  Roths- 
child has  a  country-seat  w^hich  must  certainly  be  an  im- 
provement on  the  Garden  of  Eden,  in  its  view  of  the 
lake  and  the  distant  mountains.  The  Rothschild  family 
always  make  a  good  bargain  even  with  Nature,  so  that 
in  this  perfect  place.  Nature  has  contributed  at  least 
half  the  perfection. 

The  hotels  of  Geneva  are  always  crowded  in  the 
season  with  Americans.  They  really  come  abroad  to 
see  each  other,  and  every  second  face  in  the  street  is 
that  of  one's  countrywoman.  Every  one  of  them  buys 
a  watch,  and  pays  any  price  that  the  shopman  has  the 
face  to  ask;  such  reckless  shopping  would  spoil  the 
most  pious  market  that  ever  was  trained  by  Calvin. 

They  have  brought  America  with  them  to  Geneva  in 
the  shape  of  elevators  and  rocking-chairs.  As  the  twi- 
light fell  softly  on  the  lake,  I  saw  a  familiar  shape  among 
the  flowers  and  fountains  of  the  hotel  garden.     I  ap- 


202  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

proached  it  slowly,  fearing  an  optical  delusion,  but  it  was 
actually  a  rocking-chair,  the  first  one  I  had  seen  for  three 
long  months,  and  I  settled  softly  into  it  as  one  clafeps  an 
old  friend.  A  lady  who  made  a  long  sea-voyage  told  me 
that  she  could  never  (lecide  which  she  missed  most, 
ice-water  or  society  —  in  European  travel,  the  great 
dearth  is  ice-water  and  rocking-chairs. 

After  a  day  or  two  in  a  hotel  full  of  Americans,  we 
sought  and  took  possession  of  a  "  pension  "  on  the  lake, 
kept  by  a  French  family,  who  spoke  no  English,  and  at 
last  felt  ourselves  abroad.  It  had  the  air  of  an  old 
French  chateau,  shut  into  large  grounds  by  ample 
gates,  and  its  lawn  bounded  by  a  semicircle  of  orange 
trees  in  green  tubs.  It  was  on  this  lawn  that  a  fea&t 
of  fat  things  was  spread  for.  the  "  Arbitrators,"  and  all 
other  Americans  then  in  Geneva,  on  the  last  fourth  of 
July  before  the  dolorous  failure  of  Bowles  Brothers. 
Juliet  might  have  been  at  home  on  the  little  rustic  bal- 
cony, with  a  pane  or  two  of  stained  glass,  which  gave 
my  uncarpeted  and  prosaic  little  room  a  most  poetical 
air.  There  is  no  French  liabit  so  fascinating  as  that  of 
making  common  things  pretty  at  small  expense ;  when 
we  have  imported  so  many  French  fashions,  'tis  a  pity 
we  have  left  that  out. 

In  our  time  there  were  in  the  house  Spaniards,  Rus- 
sians, Greeks,  Italians,  Japanese,  French,  Swedes,  and 
Americans.  Our  gathering  at  table  must  have  resem- 
bled the-first  meals  of  our  ancestors  after  the  confusion 
of  tongues,  except  that  we  could  all  speak  more  or  less 
French ;  it  was  considerably  less  than  more  in  the  case 
of  the  solitary  Japanese,  who  could  barely  ask  for  coffee 
and  bread,  and  so  keep  himself  from  starvation.     He 


A    WOMAN'S   VACATION.  203 

had  the  finest  teeth  in  the  world,  and  he  would  smile 
and  smile  at  us,  out  of  his  loneliness,  with  true  Eastern 
courtesy,  but  he  never  spoke.  What  a  bottled-up  state 
a  man's  mind  must  be  in  whose  communication  is  liter- 
ally, as  the  apostle  recommended,  "Yea,  yea,"  and 
"  Nay,  nay  1 "  I  suppose  fermentation  would  come 
sooner  to  a  woman. 

Of  all  these  foreigners,  the  most  foreign  was  Mr.  H., 
the  head-centre  of  Spiritualism  —  for  the  others  were 
only  alien  in  birth  and  language,  while  his  career  had 
put  him  a  little  outside  of  all  other  humanity.  One 
cannot  be  in  the  same  house  with  him  for  a  day  with- 
out perceiving  that  he  is  a  mere  bundle  of  nerves,  and 
capable  of  going  into  a  trance  more  easily  than  other 
people  go  to  sleep. 

He  calls  himself  a  relative  of  the  historian  Hume, 
since  a  pedigree  of  some  sort  is  a  usefid  thing  to  have 
in  European  courts ;  he  has  a  talent  for  mimicry,  and  a 
memory  so  wonderful,  that  he  might  have  made  an 
honorable  fame  with  half  the  labor  that  he  has  spent 
on  notoriety.  He  was  suffering  from  paralysis  at  this 
time,  induced,  no  doubt,  by  excess  of  nervous  exertion; 
and  he  had  the  hunted,  uneasy  look  in  his  eyes  of  one 
who  is  liable  to  be  brought  to  bar  at  any  moment,  and 
can  never  relax  his  watch  upon  his  enemies.  He  was 
banished  from  Rome,  —  an  episode  in  his  eventful  life 
of  which  he  could  not  be  more  proud  if  he  had  been  a 
martyr  for  preaching  the  gospel, —  and  he  found  favor 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Russian  emperor,  who  was  glad  tc» 
hear  any  new  thing  under  the  sun  ;  and  what  was  more 
to  Mr.  H.'s  purpose,  paid  him  in  great  diamonds,  as  an 
emperor  should. 


204  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

Ho  had  a  beautiful  Russian  wife,  whom  he  had  con- 
verted to  Spiritualism,  like  Mahomet,  who  took  pains 
to  convince  his  w^ife  Fatiraa  of  the  divine  origin  of  the 
Koran  before  he  tried  anybody  else.  Mrs.  H.  was  so 
lich  in  jewels  that  she  wore  pearls  to  breakfast,  and 
might  have  dissolverl  one  or  two  in  her  wine,  like  Cleo- 
patra, and  never  missed  them.  Her  husband  assured 
us  that  she  was  as  perfect  as  a  woman  could  be,  with- 
out being  an  idiot. 

He  had  with  him  two  tall  sons  of  a  Russian  baroness, 
and  they  all  kissed  each  other  affectionately  on  parting 
for  the  night.  It  is  said  that  masculine  appreciation 
of  women  kissing  one  another  is  of  the  slightest;  but 
two  mustaches  twining  together  in  a  manly  embrace, 
is  a  sight,  from  which  gods  and  women  would  turn 
away  their  eyes ! 

One  leaf  in  Mr.  H.'s  laurel  wreath  is  his  supposed 
conversion  of  Mrs.  Browning  to  Spiritualism.  Her 
husband  embalmed  him  in  a  long  satirical  poem,  under 
the  name  of  Mr.  Sludge,  which  seems  to  me  much  like 
pieserving  flies  in  amber.  Poets  have  a  wasteful  habit 
of  using  the  wine  of  their  genius  in  which  to  pickle 
their  enemies,  not  seeing,  in  their  blind  anger,  that  they 
bestow  a  gift  of  immortality  that  their  happy  victims 
would  never  obtain  of  themselves. 

A  famous  sinner,  who  had  made  his  home  in  Genev^a 
for  many  years,  died  there,  during  our  stay,  and  was 
buried  in  great  state  by  a  rejoicing  city ;  this  was  the 
rich  and  wicked  Duke  of  Brunswick,  who  took  his 
wickedness  with  him,  and  left  his  riches  to  Geneva. 
They  began  to  lay  out  their  schools  and  hospitals  be- 
fore he  was  cold ;  but  there  was  one  little  worm-hole 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  205 

in  the  fair  apple  of  their  content ;  a  lawsuit  was  one 
item  of  their  legacy. 

It  would  have  rejoiced  the  soul  of  Calvin,  and  curled 
the  lip  of  Voltaire,  to  liave  read  the  newspaper  com- 
ments on  this  piece  of  luck;  and  how  exultantly  they 
looked  their  gift-horse  in  the  mouth,  and  praised  the 
wise  generosity  of  the  giver,  wniie  maintaining  a  dead 
silence  on  all  his  other  qualities ! 


206  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 


CHAPTER  XV. 


CHAMOtJNIX. 


Mont  Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains ; 

They  crowned  him  long  ago 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds, 

With  a  diadem  of  snow.  —  Byron. 

MONT  Blanc  is  as  changeable  as  a  woman,  some- 
times sharp  and  white,  as  if  it  never  could 
alter,  then  getting  gray  and  hoary,  as  if  old  age  had 
suddenly  fallen'  on  it  like  a  blight,  and  again  disappear- 
ing altogether,  so  that  for  hours  there  is  no  Mont  Blanc 
at  all,  as  far  as  Geneva  is  concerned. 

Chamounix  and  its  belt  of  hills  are  the  real  recep- 
tion-rooms of  the  monarch.  In  a  nearer  approach  one 
pays  back  more  or  less  of  the  enchantment  that  distance 
lent  the  view,  as  one  sometimes  loses  reverence  for 
famous  people  by  becoming  too  intimate  with  them. 
One  may  lift  the  snowy  veil  that  makes  Mont  Blanc 
the  Madonna  of  mountains;  but  it  is  at  the  price  of 
much  sub.stance,  both  of  body  and  purse,  and  after  all 
there  is  no  beauty  like  the  unapproachable.  A  veiled 
nun  is  romantic  and  stimulating  to  the  imagination, 
when  in  reality  she  may  be  of  the  roughest  Hiberuiaa 
clay,  and  marked  with  the  small-pox. 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  207 

A  woman  is  never  so  lovely  to  her  lover  as  in  the 
distance.  When  parents  stood  jealously  between 
daughters  and  their  suitors,  how  stately  and  angelio 
were  all  the  heroines  of  novels  and  poetry,  cold  as  ice- 
peaks,  and  only  melting  to  love  seven  times  heated ! 
but  since  young  women  have  stepped  down  from  the 
old  pedestal,  and  banished  father  and  mother  to  the 
back  parlor,  the  whole  tone  of  fiction  and  society  is, 
"  Whistle  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad." 

So  the  royalty  of  Mont  Blanc,  when  it  was  reserved 
and  inaccessible,  could  not  be  made  glorious  enough. 
Coleridge  bowed  down  to  it  like  a  divinity  in  his  Hymn 
to  Chamouny, — 

**  Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven ;  '* 

but  since  it  has  been  ascended  by  armies  of  lean  trav- 
ellers, and  its  deepest  mystery  photographed,  everybody 
speaks  lightly  of  it,  as  of  a  next-door  neighbor. 

Thackeray  comments  on  Swiss  scenery  as  he  would 
speak  of  a  dinner  party  of  intelligent  people  who  did 
not  wholly  live  to  eat.  "It  is  delightful  to  be  in  the 
midst  of  Alpine  scenes  —  the  ideas  get  generous  reflec- 
tions from  them.  It  is  keeping  good  company.  It  is 
keeping  away  mean  thoughts." 

Our  journey  from  Geneva  to  Chamounix  lay  through 
forty  miles  of  rain,  a  steady  <lown-pour,  as  if  the  moun- 
tains and  valleys  were  having  one  of  those  tri-monthly 
washings,  which  put  a  German  family  under  water  for 
a  day  or  two.  The  road  made  safe  by  Napoleon  is 
said  to  have  been  wonderfully  picturesque  by  birth- 
right; but  I  -ask  no  one  to  take  luy  word  for  it.     I  was 


208  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

enclosed  in  a  mass  of  twenty  people,  dripping  about 
the  edges  and  damp  in  the  middle.  It  was  an  open 
carriage  by  nature,  with  a  canvas  awning  over  it,  con- 
trived solely  with  a  view  to  dry  scenery.  The  rear 
was  weighed  down  with  a  party  of  middle-class  Eng- 
lish, who  sat  and  glowered  at  one  another  as  only 
English  can,  till  they  were  stayed  with  food  and  com- 
forted with  wine  at  the  little  half-way  house,  and  then 
their  heavy  British  wit  began  to  roll  around  the  car- 
riage like  thunder  among  mountains.  Opposite  to  us 
were  a  couple  from  Uruguay,  with  their  little  negro 
servant,  "God's  image  cut  in  ebony,"  the  only  one  of 
the  company  to  whom  rain  and  shine  were  equally  a 
satisfaction.  Who  ever  saw  a  negro  look  worried? 
One  would  almost  consent  to  be  black  with  that  com- 
pensation. On  one  side  were  Beauty  and  the  Beast 
('tis  amazing  how  often  they  go  on  their  travels),  in 
the  shape,  this  time,  of  an  "ancient  mariner"  and  his 
fair,  soft  little  wife,  who  looked  as  if  she  had  never 
put  her  foot  to  the  ground  for  delicacy.  They  had  a 
small  but  troublesome  family,  consisting  of  a  Scotch 
terrier,  so  minute  that  it  was  carried  in  a  hand-basket 
in  its  mistress's  lap,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  their 
journey  was  conducted  chiefly  for  the  education  of  the 
terrier.  If  the  curtains  were  lifted  for  a  moment  to 
view  a  waterfall  or  a  rocky  defile,  the  cover  of  the 
basket  was  lifted  too,  that  the  dog  might  have  the 
benefit.  A  child  would  have  flourished  like  a  green 
bay  tree  on  half  the  attention  that  was  wasted  on  this 
little  beast ! 

Nothing  is  more  amazing  in  human  nature  than  the 
devotion    of  middle-aged   women  to   dogs  —-women, 


.      A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  209 

who  think  themselves  fortunate  that  they  have  had  no 
children.  A  dog  is  never  anything  but  a  dog,  if  you 
keep  him  twenty  years,  whereas  the  comfort  and  joy 
of  a  child  increase  at  compound  interest,  and  no  two 
years  of  its  life  are  alike.  On  the  other  side  was  a 
Spanish  mystery,  shaped  like  a  man,  who  looked 
strnight  before  him  for  forty  miles,  holding  an  un- 
lighted  cigarette  between  his  lips,  always  at  the  same 
angle.  Na  one  saw  him  get  out  or  in.  To  this  day  I 
think  he  was  a  wax  figure  provided  by  the  diligence 
company  to  fill  up  an  empty  seat. 

The  real  martyr  of  the  ride  was  a  guide  in  a  blue 
blouse,  who  sat  on  the  bottom  of  the  carriage,  swing- 
ing his  legs  over  the  wheels,  and  soaking  in  rain  all 
day  like  a  sponge.  He  sat  at  the  feet  of  a  passenger 
with  an  aureole  of  flame-colored  hair  and  beard  about 
his  face,  who,  with  the  touch  of  cruelty,  which  seems 
innate  with  that  temperament,  amused  himself  with 
making  minute  streams  of  water  run  off  his  umbrella 
down  the  neck  of  the  luckless  guide,  who  could  not 
escape,  turn  which  way  he  would.  It  was  the  old 
story  of  the  boy  and  the  frogs.  We  had  nothing  to 
do  but  to  study  each  other,  and  make  laughter  keep 
out  rheumatism. 

*'I  think,"  said  the  "ancient  mariner,"  "that  these 
people  from  Uruguay  have  probably  got  rich  keeping 
a  groggery,  and  having  a  married  daughter  in  Europe, 
came  over  to  see  what  it  was  like."  The  people  from 
Uruguay  were  looking  straight  in  his  face  when  he 
pronounced  sentence  on  them,  but  they  were  none  the 
wiser.  It  is  a  perilous  pleasure  to  abuse  people  to 
their  faces  in  another  language,  but  not  one  to  be 
14 


210  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

practised  with  impunity.  When  the  abused  person  an- 
swers unexpectedly  in  the  same  language,  then  we  are 
ready  to  call  on  the  rocks  to  fall  down  and  cover  us. 
Mrs.  Mariner  dreaded  this  result,  and  tried  to  hush  her 
reckless  husband;  but  all  in  vain.  He  was  wholly  de- 
voted to  her  in  tuckinfj  her  in  from  the  rain  and  secur- 
ing  for  her  every  possible  morsel  of  comfort,  at  the 
sacrifice  of  his  own.  He  was  ready  to  be  her  foot- 
stool ;  but  he  would  not  take  her  advice.  She  had  the 
semblance  of  power  without  the  substance,  "love  and 
cherishing"  with  "honor"  left  out. 

I  don't  think  that  little  word  "honor"  in  the  mar- 
riage promise  has  ever  had  its  due.  There  is  a  great 
fuss  made  about  the  "  obey ; "  but  if  it  were  truly 
wedded  to  "  honor,"  they  are  a  couple  that  would  pull 
well  together  forever  and  ever.  It  is  sweet  to  be 
physically  beloved,  to  have  cloaks  laid  down  over 
muddy  places  like  a  queen,  and  to  be  screened  from 
every  wind  of  heaven  like  a  first-born  baby;  but 
sweeter  far  is  it  to  be  listened  to  and  heeded,  though 
one  must  walk  in  rubber  boots,  and  bear  with  a  cold 
shoulder  now  and  then.  "  Strike,  but  hear  me,"  is  not 
the  worst  motto  in  the  world  for  a  wife's  flnsf. 

The  flapping  curtains  of  our  carriage  parted  between 
whiles  that  we  might. look  at  some  mountain  torrent 
tumbling  superfluously  over  the  rocks,  not  seeing  that 
its  occupation  was  gone,  since  all  heaven  was  a  water- 
fall. Rarely  we  met  a  woman  paddling  through  the 
flooded  fields  — 

*' Alone,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow." 

It  was  always  a  woman  —  the  men  were  all  in-doors,  as 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  211 

became  those  superior  beings.  There  is  but  one  bit 
of  work  in  Switzerhind  not  performed  by  women  ;  they 
are  never  guides  —  perhaps  because  there  is  money 
to  be  made  by  it.  They  carry  burdens  bigger  than 
themselves  up  the  ladder-like  sides  of  their  mountains, 
but  they  do  not  lead  travellers.  In  the  mountain  vil- 
lages, hundreds  of  men  live  by  whittling^  making  every 
mortal  thing  out  of  wood  that  that  material  will  sub- 
mit to.  Whole  villages  also  will  be  devoted  to  making 
over  and  over  one  wheel  or  one  spring  of  a  watch, 
which  are  carried  to  Geneva  and  fitted  to  other  springs 
and  wheels  that  have  travelled  down  from  other  moun- 
tains —  a  watch  bought  there  may  have  been  thin- 
spread  all  over  Switzerland. 

Until  this  wet  ride  my  eyes  had  been  mercifully 
withheld  from  seeing  the  national  curse  —  the  goitre; 
but  when  the  diligence  stopped  for  lunch,  an  old  woman 
came  to  the  side  with  a  terrible  growth  under  her  chin, 
at  least  a  foot  long,  as  of  a  bunch  of  beets  or  carrots 
dragged  out  of  the  ground  with  earth  clinging  to 
them.  A  sight  for  a  nightmare ;  and  yet  the  old  crea- 
ture looked  as  if  she  had  a  sort  of  pride  in  it,  the 
vegetable  outgrowth  of  ages  of  filth  and  bad  air. 
Was  there  ever  a  curse  so  black  that  conceited  hu- 
manity would  not  wring  a  secret  drop  of  comfort  out 
of  it? 

The  next  morning  the  Chamounix  Valley  was  sweet 
and  fresh  as  a  lusty  baby  after  a  bath,  and  we  found 
"a  thing  to  do"  right  speedily  —  to  cross  the  Mer  de 
Glace,  the  cast-off  garments  of  Mont  Blanc,  which 
have  fallen  between  two  lower  heights,  and  lie  frozen 
there  in  hundreds  of  feet  of  gieen  ice  shining  like 
chrysoprase. 


212  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

We  mounted  our  mules  at  the  hotel  door  and  rode, 
single  file,  up  the  rocky  stairs  of'  the  Mon  tan  vert,  a 
wooded  hill  which  serves  as  a  footstool  from  which  to 
look  in  the  face  of  Swiss  royalty. 

My  mule  had  grown  near-sighted  in  his  old  age,  and 
insisted  on  climbing  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice, 
either  to  see  his  home  in  the  valley  better,  or  to  be 
certain  where  the  edge  was.  With  the  exception  of 
this  litlle  weakness,  he  was  all  that  one  could  desire  in 
an  intimate  friend  among  mules.  With  a  stout  pair 
of  eye-glasses  he  would  have  been  perfect. 

If  one  has  any  faith  left  in  man,  the  idiosyncrasy  of 
the  Swiss  mule  don't  matter  much,  as  a  guide  leads 
each  one  by  the  bridle.  These  Swiss  guides  are  a  class 
by  themselves,  a  serious,  woithy,  wrinkled  set  of  men, 
fed  upon  danger  from  childhood,  as  it  had  been  bread 
and  butter. 

St.  Ursula  made  long  discourses  with  them  in  her 
best  French,  —  she  would  draw  out  a  Hottentot's  views 
of  politics  and  religion,  —  and  these  were  her  results. 
The  province  of  Savoy,  in  which  Chamounix  is  situat- 
ed, having  passed  from  Italian  to  French  rule  within 
a  few  years,  these  men  did  highly  approve  the  change, 
since  taxes  were  lower.  Furthermore,  they  preferred 
to  guide  Americans  rather  than  other  travellers,  be- 
cause they  were  so  lavish  of  their  money.  They  had 
been  known  to  give  as  much  as  ^\Qi  francs  to  a  guide 
for  his  dinner.  I  know  not  whether  all  their  ideas  and 
opinions  had  roots  in  their  pockets;  but  these  two 
were  enough  to  make  them  men  and  brethren. 

We  were  already  blest  in  this  Chamounix  journey 
with  six  feet  of  manly  escort,  brimful  of  true  American 


A   WOMAN'S   VACATION  213 

kindness  to  his  lonely  countrywomen,  which  ought  to 
have  been  enough  for  us,  since  we  had  fought  our  own 
battle  so  long.  However,  it  never  rains  but  it  pours, 
and  just  here  we  fell  in  with  the  "  Fairy  Prince." 
According  to  Tennyson,  he  had  broken  the  hedge, 
waked  the  sleeping  princess  with  a  kiss,  and  earned 
her  "across  the  hills  and  flar  away"  with  him  ages  ago; 
but  here  he  was  again,  as  young  as  ever. 

**  He  travels  far  from  other  skies  — 
His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks  — 
A  fairy  prince  with  joyful  eyes, 
And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox." 

He  wore  a  suit  of  brown  knickerbockers  instead  of 
a  glittering  mantle,  and  he  presented  his  card  like  other 

people  —  of  course  it  was  only  plain  Mr.  ;  but 

that  was  his  disguise,  as  other  princes  of  royal  biith 
call  themselves  mere  count  or  baron  on  their  travels. 
He  bestrode  his  mule  as  if  it  had  been  a  "fiery,  un- 
tamed steed  of  the  desert,"  and  he  ordered  impossible 
dinners  on  little  shelves  of  the  rock,  which  nevertheless 
came  to  pass  in  due  season  as  by  magic.  He  had  the 
true  fairy  talent  for  making  arrangements,  so  that  his 
companions  seemed  to  slide  down  an  inclined  plane  to 
the  desire  of  their  hearts.  It  was  a  great  blow  to 
some  of  us  when  he  spoke  of  his  wife  —  why  did  I  at 
once  think  of  Mahomet's  father,  who  was  so  handsome 
that  on  his  wedding  day  two  thousand  virgins  made 
an  end  of  themselves  in  their  despair?  —  for  it  proved 
that  he  had  already  found  the  princess  and  made  that 
little  journey  "across  the  hills  and  far  away,"  like  his 
ancestor. 


214  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

We  broke  the  news  gently  to  Juno,  but  — 
**the  subsequent  proceedings  interested  her  no  more." 

It  is  odd  how  instantly  some  women  lose  interest  in 
a  man  when  they  discover  that  he  is  married.  It  is 
almost  the  sole  exception  to  the  rule  that  only  the 
unattainable  is  w^orth  having.  To  me,  there  is  a 
troublesome  uncertainty  in  the  manner  of  a  bachelor, 
as  if  he  never  quite  knew  where  his  feet  might  carry 
him ;  but  a  married  man  can  call  his  soul  his  own  with 
no  sort  of  misgiving  how  anybody  will  take  it.  In  our 
case  the  princess  was  indeed  far  away  —  at  least  three 
thousand  miles  —  taking  care  of  the  heir  to  the  throne, 
and  for  two  endless  summer  days  her  prince  went 
across  the  hills  with  us. 

The  blackness  of  desolation  is  a  familiar  phrase;  but 
looking  down  from  the  Montanvert  on  the  ancient 
ravages  of  the  glacier,  that  "frozen  hurricane,"  and  its 
two  cold  arms,  the  Arve  and  the  Arveiron,  reaching 
out  of  the  valley  to  cool  the  rest  of  the  worid,  one 
begins  to  learn  the  meaning  of  the  whiteness  of  desola- 
tion. We  leave  our  mules  here  for  a  season,  those  for- 
tunate animals  not  being  able  to  walk  on  ice,  and  after 
scrambling  down  the  rocky  wall  that  was  intended  by 
Nature  to  fence  in  her  ice  treasure  from  all  human 
meddling,  we  draw  on  knitted  shoes  and  begin  our 
walk  over  fathomless  ice  under  the  midsummer  sun. 
Our  feet  touch  the  frigid  zone  and  our  head  the  torrid. 
Steps  are  cut  along  a  winding  path,  and  there  is  no 
danger  if  one  could  resist  looking  over  the  edge  of  the 
yawning  cracks,  into  which  one  drops  a  stone  and  hears 
it  rebound  aojainst  the  oreen  walls  of  ice  long  after  it 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION  215 

is  out  of  sight.  These  crevasses  have  an  uncomfort- 
able habit  of  breaking  out  in  a  new  spot  sometimes; 
but  the  ice  groans  and  lieaves  long  enough  beforehand 
to  warn  people  away  from  its  neighborhood. 

The  glacier  is  more  beautiful  in  a  picture,  because 
Nature  is  not  a  good  housekeeper,  never  wiping  the 
dust  of  ages  off  its  face.  It  was  evidently  intended  to 
be  looked  at  from  a  distance,  and  the  black  specks  in 
water-proof  cloaks  crawling  over  it  all  summer  are  an 
impertinence  to  its  grand  loneliness.  It  ought  to  be 
let  severely  alone.  One  seems  to  be  looking  on  about 
the  evening  of  the  third  day  of  creation,  when  the 
waters  were  gathered  together  in  one  place  and  the 
dry  land  appeared ;  but  there  were  yet  twenty-four 
hours  before  "the  grass  and  the  herb  yielding  seed,  and 
the  fruit  tree  yielding  fruit  after  its  kind,"  had  been 
heard  of.  It  may  well  be  the  place  where  all  the  waste 
material  left  over,  after  that  six  days'  work,  was  thrown 
to  get  it  out  of  the  way,  "  the  fret-work  of  an  earth- 
quake." It  bears  down  small  talk  and  travelling  jokes 
like  a  death  in  the  house ;  only  those  whose  souls 
habitually  walk  "on  the  heights"  retain  their  cheer- 
fulness without  an  effort. 

•  Crossing  the  ice  is  nothing ;  it  is  but  the  first  skirmish 
of  the  battle.  After  such  scrambling  as  makes  one 
take  back  some  old  strictures  on  the  Bloomer  costume, 
one  creeps,  and  jumps,  and  almost  writhes  along  the 
side  of  a  perpendicular  rock,  like  drunken  flies  on  a 
wall.  There  is  nothing  above  us  but  rock  and  sky, 
and  nothing  below  but  more  rock  added  to  the  glacier 
and  destruction  —  the  downward  look  is  the  most  in- 
teresting.   An  iron  railing  has  been  welded  into  the 


216  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

path.  With  one  hand  clutching  this,  and  sticking 
closer  than  a  brother  to  my  guide,  I  passed  over  the 
Mauvais  Pas,  or  "Bad  Step."  If  there  are  worse  steps, 
I  desire  never  to  take  them.  It  is  not  a  bad  type  of 
the  return  journey  from  "facilis  descensus  Averni."  I 
knoWnothing  of  the  scenery  along  this  perilous  walk, 
but  I  can  tell  the  number  of  threads  in  my  guide's 
coat-collar,  to  which  I  nailed  my  dizzy  eyes;  but  there 
is  no  "bad  step"  in  the  world  for  some  people.  One 
of  us  in  a  trailing  skirt  skimmed  over  this  danger  like 
a  young  and  fool-hardy  chamois. 

.  Nothing  demonstrates  the  superior  strength  of  the 
female  body  over  that  of  man  (however  much  it  may 
impugn  her  common  sense)  than  to  see  a  woman 
wrapped  in  heavy  and  clinging  skirts  do  easily  what 
men  find  difficult  without  that  drawback.  A  woman 
gives  them  several  points  in  the  matter  of  clothes,  and 
often  wins  after  all.  *  Sir  John  Mandeville  says  he  never 
felt  so  devout  as  when  he  was  passing  through  the 
Dangerous  Valley.  It  may  not  be  difficult  to  be  an 
infidel  on  smooth  ground,  but  on  the  "bad  steps"  of 
this  world,  a  stout  belief  in  the  "  everlasting  arms," 
and  angels  standing  around,  "lest  thou  trip  thy  foot 
against  a  stone,"  is  a  handy  thing  to  have  about  one. ' 
There  was  one  flying  leap  from  one  little  stone  bracket 
to  another,  after  which,  had  I  been  a  good  Catholic,  I 
would  have  vowed  a  candle  to  the  Virgin  at  least  five 
feet  long. 

Only  the  day  before  our  visit,  the  Bad  Step  had  its 
latest  tragedy,  with  a  comic  edge  to  it,  as  most  trage- 
dies have.  In  the  pouring  rain  a  party  left  the  hotel 
at  Chamounix  for  the  Mer  de  Glace,  and  coming  up  on 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION,  217 

the  other  side,  took  the  Bad  Step  first.  The  sweetest 
of  little  old  ladies,  a  mere  dot  of  a  woman,  with  her 
doctor  of  divinity,  were  among  them,  and  went  on 
over  the  slippery  rock  made  doubly  dangerous  by  the 
rain,  because  once  started  there  was  no  turning  back. 
She  dragged  the  pounds  on  pounds  of  wet  water-proof 
cloth  clinging  about  her  feet  to  the  little  oasis,  where 
people  rest  and  gird  up  their  loins  before  crossing  the 
ice.  Here  she  threw  herself  prone  on  the  ground,  and 
was  still  as  an  ink  blot.  When  the  others  started,  her 
husband  tried  to  rouse  her.  "  No,"  she  said ;  "  you 
may  all  go  on.  I  want  nothing.  I  will  die  here!" 
It  was  the  calmness  of  despair;  women  often  threaten 
in  certain  contingencies  to  '•'give  up;'''*  but  the  thing  is 
rare  as  snow  in  August.  When  it  happens,  the  family 
machine  stops  and  desperate  remedies  are  applied. 
This  w^oman  did  the  thing  without  the  threat,  also  a 
rare  thing  in  her  sex;  and  was  ever  doctor  of  divinity 
in  such  a  plight  before?  He  had  lived  with  her  forty 
years,  and  she  yet  had  power  to  surprise  him.  He  had 
seen  her  endure  years  of  wasting  sickness  without  los- 
ing cheerfulness.  He  had  seen  her  go  down  into  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  and  come  back  smiling 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms;  but  now  at  last  she  had 
"given  up."  He  offered  to  carry  her  down  the  rocks 
and  across  the  ice  —  he  who  had  come  abroad  for  Iiis 
health ;  but  she  answered  him  only,  "  Go  with  the  rest. 
I  will  die  here!"  like  the  refrain  of  a  dirge.  The 
doctor  must  have  scolded  at  this  point,  if  he  were  not 
more  than  mortal;  but  it  did  no  good,  and  finally  he 
"wrapped  the  mantle  of  his  thoughts  about  him,  and  sat 
down  in  the  rain  to  meditate  a  new  chapter  on  the 


218  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

woman  question.  The  other  people  went  on,  and  the 
two  kept  solitary  watch  on  the  Mer  de  Glace  like  two 
gray-headed  eagles  in  an  eyrie.  At  ihe  end  of  a  silent 
half  liour,  in  which  the  doctor  discovered  what  very 
liard-working  people  those  are  who  "only  stand  and 
wait,"  she  rose  up,  walked  over  the  ice,  mounted  her 
mule,  and  reg;)ined  the  hotel*.  She  had  broken  the 
main-spring  of  hope,  and  it  took  Nature  just  half  an 
hour  to  mend  it. 

We  found  a  little  box  of  a  restaurant  at  the  end  of 
the  Bad  Step,  clinging  to  the  rock  as  if  it  had  rolled 
down  the  mountain  side  and  lodged  there.  We  would 
not  have  scorned  the  "dinner  of  herbs;"  but  we  had 
the  "stalled  ox"  and  "contentment  therewith."  In  a 
bottle  of  enthusiasm,  which  went  by  another  name  in 
the  bill,  we  drank  to  those  we  loved,  and  again  to 
those  who  loved  us.  Some  hasty  people  might  think 
they  were  one  and  the  same ;  but  every  discriminating 
mind  perceives  that  they  are  two  very  different  drinks. 

"  Now  they  all  sat  or  stood 
To  eat  and  to  drink, 
And  every  one  said 

What  he  happened  to  think,"  — 

as  they  did  at  the  wedding  of  Cock  Robin  and  Jennie 
Wren,  and  I  know  no  surer  test  of  the  enjoyment  of 
any  company. 

Our  last  toast  was,  "  Our  enemies,  may  God  forgive 
them ! " 

"For  we  never  will,"  added  the  Fairy  Prince;  and 
then  we  found  our  mules,  and  rattled  our  bones  over 
the  stones  back  to  the  hotel.     Juno  ran  a  mule-race 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  219 

with  the  prince,  and  her  guide  assured  her  that  she 
had  "the  habitude  of  a  horse."  All  the  rest  of  us 
trailed  far  behhid  them,  looking  as  if  our  dolls  were 
stuifed  with  sawdust,  and  we  did  not  care  who  knew 
it.  It  had  been  a  day  of  days,  and  it  "  died  of  its  own 
glory,"  transmuting  Mont  Blanc  by  sunset  alchemy 
into  a  solid  mass  of  burnished  gold.  This  is  called 
the  "After-glow,"  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  mountain 
fades  again  into  a  cold  white  cloud.  This  change  is 
like  a  sudden  blinding  gleam  of  delight  which  fades 
out  as  if  it  had  never  been,  when  the  twilight  of  com- 
mon sense  settles  on  it. 

The  region  of  Mont  Blanc  has  a  wonderfully  biblical 
effect  —  mountainous  texts  float  uppermost  in  the  mem- 
ory. That  splendid  psalm  in  the  prayer  book  which 
calls  on  every  created  thing,  "stars  and  wnnds,  ice  and 
snow,  mountains  and  hills,  to  praise  the  Lord  and 
magnify  him  forever,"  keeps  chanting  itself  in  every 
mind  that  is  familiar  with  it.  Mont  Blanc  is  a  great 
white  hand  on  the  guide-board  of  the  sky,  pointing  to 
the  fact  more  easily  forgotten  than  any  other,  "Be  ye 
sure  that  the  Lord  he  is  God ;  it  is  he  that  hath  made 
us  and  not  we  ourselves."  All  the  funerals  in  the 
world  could  not  put  a  sharper  point  upon  it. 

The  Swiss  are  a  pious  and  God-fearing  race.  Their 
mountains  continually  do  preach  to  them  like  Evan- 
gelists, anr]  they  are  converted  in  spite  of  themselves. 

Anybody  can  make  a  flat  country  by  filling  in  a 
bay  —  Boston  made  miles  of  it,  and  thought  no  more 
about  it ;  but  among  high  mountains  their  Maker  seems 
to  be  still  walking  where  Moses  spoke  with  him.  Mr. 
Beecher  says  he  never  realized  how  much  work  it  was 


r^ 


220  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

to  put  the  world  together  until  he  tried  to  make  a  hill 
four  feet  high. 

In  the  early  morning  we  were  packed  into  springless 
wagons  drawn  by  mules  for  a  drive  of  twenty-four 
miles  over  the  Tete  Noire  (Black  Head)  pass  to  Mar- 
tigny.  I  saw  the  last  of  Chamounix  in  the  shape  of 
my  near-sighted  mule.  I  bowed  to  him,  but  he  took 
no  notice  —  Ae  may  have  forgotten  our  short  friend- 
ship, but  I  never  shall. 

The  breath  of  a  Swiss  morning  is  sweet  and  sharp 
as  the  flavor  of  a  pine-apple.  It  cheers  and  inebri- 
ates too.  The  mountains  are  black  and  bleak  beyond 
telling;  but  they  are  not  so  unnecessarily  high  as 
Mont  Blanc  and  the  other  snow-peaks.  A  cheerful 
little  stream,  white  with  foam,  bathes  their  roots,  and 
now  and  then,  high  up  on  the  side,  nestles  a  broad- 
brimmed  village  like  a  cluster  of  birds'  nests  on  a  tree- 
top.  Frisky  waterfalls  that  have  never  been  sobered 
by  the'  drudgery  of  turning  a  mill-wheel  plunge  reck- 
lessly down  the  mountain,  and  break  into  a  shower  of 
emeralds  and  rubies  in  the  rays  of  that  great  jeweller, 
the  sun.  Some  French  savant  calls  mountains  only 
the  wrinkles  on  the  face  of  the  old  earth,  and  Parsees 
say  that  they  are  the  heads  of  the  long  pins  that  hold 
the  world  down  in  its  place.  The  road  winds  along 
like  a  serpent,  hedged  in  by  a  rickety  fence  (wherever 
there  is  no  danger)^  but  it  always  gives  way  at  the 
steepest  places,  and  rolls  down  into  the  valley,  out  of 
deference  to  the  view.  In  very  sharp  descents,  one 
mule  is  fastened  behind  the  carriage,  on  the  safe  prin- 
ciple that  a  mule  will  always  pull  backwards  when  he 
gets  a  chance.    The  road  seems  to  be  built  with  a  view 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  221 

to  all  the  travel  setting  one  way,  from  Charaounix  to 
Martigny.  One  solitary  wagon  and  a  mule,  very  small 
of  its  age,  came  the  other  way,  and  found  out  its 
mistake.  It  turned  out  for  us,  and  in  the  act  went 
backward  down  the  hill-side,  dragging  the  mule  with 
it.  The  descent  was  gi-assy,  but  steep,  for  about  a  hun- 
dred feet,  and  ended  in  a  rushing  stream  full  of  sharp 
rocks.  When  I  looked  over  the  edge  I  expected  to 
see  a  mule  in  pieces ;  but  about  half  way  down,  a  pro- 
jecting stone  had  wedged  itself  into  the  wagon  and 
held  it  till  it  could  be  secured.  The  bewildered  mule 
was  dragged  up  the  bank,  and  set  upon  his  feet,  and 
from  the  tip  of  his  bruised  nose  to  the  end  of  his  tail 
he  wore  the  exact  expression  of  Sterne's  famous  don- 
key, which  seemed  to  say,  "Don't  beat  me;  but  if  you  \ 
will  you  may ! "  A  mule  is  almost  as  hard  to  kill  as  a  "^i 
woman!  The  wagon  had  contained  nothing  but  an  / 
elderly  carpet-bag,  and  the  hill-side  was  strewn  with 
combs,  and  brushes,  and  shirts.  A  few  rods  faither  on, 
and  out  of  sight  of  the  late  catastrophe,  we  came  upon 
the  owner,  sitting  on  a  stone  in  the  broiling  sun  with 
note-book  in  hand,  and  a  tall  hat  on  his  head,' which 
looked  as  foreign  to  the  scene  as  anything  could.  Bret 
Harte  says  that  a  stove-pipe  hat  on  any  one  but  a 
clergyman  or  a  gambler  in  the  mountains  of  California 
in  the  early  days  would  have  justified  a  blow.  In  this 
man,  one  recognized  the  Yankee  as  distinctly  as  if  the 
American  postage-stamp  had  been  on  his  forehead,  and 
his  hollow  cheeks  and  well-preserved  black  suit  seemed 
to  mark  the  minister  from  Cranberry  Centre,  whom  a 
lucky  bronchitis  had  sent  abroad  for  cure.  I  suppose 
he  thought  he  left  his  wagon  to  study  the  fine  view, 


222  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

all  unconscious  that  his  guardian  angel  had  put  it 
into  his  head  in  order  to  avoid  the  coming  overturn. 
American  tourists  can  never  feel  quite  at  home  in  Al- 
j)ine  scenery,  because  they  miss  *' Plantation  Bitters" 
and  "Mrs.  Allen's  Hair  Restorer  "in  large  letters  on 
every  salient  point,  as  they  have  them  in  their  native 
wilds.  The  "effete  monarchies"  manao:e  these  thinofs 
better.  As  we  approach  the  summit  of  the  pass,  the 
plot  thickens,  and  the  gloomy  mountains  draw  their 
heads  nearer  together,  like  conspirators. 

The  Black  Head  is  a  stubborn  mass  of  rock  that 
leans  over  the  valley  with  a  scowl.  It  has  been  tun- 
nelled, since  there  is  no  getting  around  it;  and  we  went 
in  at  one  ear  in  France  and  came  out  at  the  other  in 
Switzerland.  In  the  long,  down-hill  jolt  describing 
an  endless  row  of  acute  angles,  we  were  in  sight  of 
Martigny  for  miles;  but  the  village  seemed  to  flee  be- 
fore us.  When  we  reached  it  we  were  still  alive,  but 
in  the  condition  of  that  army  which  would  be  ruined 
by  such  another  victory. 

However,  a  night's  sleep  and  the  breath  of  the 
mountains  miraculously  "knit  up  the  ravelled  sleeve 
of  care,"  and  the  better  part  of  us  were  ready  next 
morning  to  mount  into  the  region  of  eternal  snow, 
where  the  brethren  of  Mont  St.  Bernard  slowly  freeze 
to  death  in  the  service  of  God  and  his  poor. 

Our  mules  trotted  cheerfully  over  the  splendid  road 
built  by  Napoleon,  nodding  their  heads  continually  as 
if  in  token  of  approval  of  such  travelling.  The  Alpine 
pictures,  in  their  azure  frame  of  sky,  unrolling  them- 
selves one  after  another  as  we  climb  hio^her  and  higher, 
are  so  many  health-giving  draughts  to  our  weariness. 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  223 

The  human  figures  in  the  landscape  are  its  only  draw- 
back. In  the  filthy  little  village,  where  we  stopped  for 
luncheon,  there  is  everything  to  take  away  one's  appe- 
tite. The  government  seems  to  be  administered  by 
pigs  that  do  shamefully  tyrannize  over  the  other  in- 
habitants. We  were  forced  to  drive  through  a  sty, 
long  drawn  out.  St.  Peter  is  doubtless  ashamed  of  his 
namesake.  The  people  were  just  lumps  of  animated 
dirt,  and  yet  they  might  be  clean  if  they  thought  of 
it;  there  is  water  enough  always  going  to  waste  down 
the  side  of  the  mountain.  When  we  left  St.  Pierre 
another  mule  joined  company  with  us,  a  portentous 
addition,  of  which  we  soon  found  the  meaning.  The 
mountain  g\  3W  so  steep  that  the  carriage-road  shrunk 
to  a  foot-path,  and  leaving  the  wagon  behind,  we 
mounted  the  mules.  As  we  climbed  in  single  file  the 
rugged  way  with  a  sack  of  hay  strapped  on  behind, 
and  our  own  modest  traps  hung  on  each  side  like  the 
saddle-bags  of  a  doctor  in  the  olden  time,  we  looked 
not  unlike  an  old  picture  of  the  "Flight  into  Egypt." 
There  is  a  chilly  flavor  of  snow  in  the  air  long  before 
we  pass  the  first  patches  of  it  lying  on  the  grass  like 
bits  of  white  linen  put  out  to  dry. 

When  the  Hospice  comes  into  sight,  after  twelve 
hours  of  climbing,  the  gaunt  old  dogs  rush  out  at  us 
with  a  loud  welcome,  and  a  troop  of  beggars  creep  out 
of  their  holes  in  the  ground,  for  they  are  too  filthy 
ever  to  have  had  any  other  home.  The  dogs  are 
weather-beaten  old  heroes;  but  these  beggars,  who 
cumber  the  earth  by  the  charity  of  the  brethren,  are 
so  evidently  below  the  level  of  brutes,  that  they  ought 
to  break  themselves  of  the  habit  of  living. 


224  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

We  go  up  the  steps  of  a  gray  stone  building,  and 
ring  a  bell,  which  brings  a  brother  to  the  door.  A 
pale,  handsome  man  is  this  monk,  with  vivacious  black 
eyes  never  tamed  by  conventual  rule  or  everlasting 
cold.  He  leads  us  up  stairs,  along  a  stone  corridor 
with  many  wooden  doors,  numbered  and  unpainted, 
leading  out  of  it,  and  leaves  us  in  a  little  room  with 
three  narrow  beds  in  it,  and  as  many  small  wash-hand 
stands.  The  floor  and  walls  are  of  unpainted  wood ; 
but  the  beds  would  rejoice  the  heart  of  the  neatest 
of  Yankee  housewives.  They  ar.e  high-posters  with 
white  canopies  and  valences,  and  for  coverlet  there  is 
a  fat  feather-bed  cased  in  white.  As  we  looked  out  of 
the  little  window  into  the  sky,  a  few  flakes  of  snow 
float  lazily  downward,  and  it  is  only  the  middle  of 
August.  In  the  dining-room  a  welcome  wood-fire 
blazes  in  the  wide  ^rate,  a  piano  stands  open,  and 
our  black-eyed  host  makes  good  cheer  for  us  in  French, 
which,  in  its  very  sound,  is  more  lively  than  English 
ever  can  be.  It  was  a  fast-day  of  peculiar  strictness 
for  the  brethren,  and  we  saw  no  others.  The  dinner 
was  served  in  this  warm  room,  and  we  sat  down  with 
half  a  dozen  other  travellers,  who  had  come  up  from 
the  Italian  side.  There  were  also  three  or  four  mature- 
looking  Frenchwomen,  who  had  an  undefinable  air  of 
being  at  home.  It  did  not  appear  whether  they  had 
retired  to  the  Hospice  to  do  penance  for  their  sins,  or 
to  comfort  the  lonely  brethren  with  some  semblance 
of  home  life ;  but  there  they  were. 

A  fast-day  dinner  in  a  monastery  is  by  no  means  the 
meagre  and  starveling  affair  that  one  might  suppose. 
First  came  a  mild  sort  of  soup,  with  savory  bits  of 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION,  225 

bread  in  it;  then  a  course  of  codfish  and  potatoes,  deli- 
ciously  cooked;  then  macaroni,  with  the  Italian  flavor; 
then  a  pyramid  of  flaky  rice  rising  out  of  a  pond  of 
stewed  prunes;  and  the  dessert  consisted  of  all  man- 
ner of  dried  fruit  and  nuts.  Red  wine  flowed  freely. 
The  brother  pressed  every  dish  on  his  guests  with  the 
warmest  hospitality,  and  when  we  left  him  for  the 
night,  he  urged  us  to  come  to  mass  in  the  morning  at 
five  o'clock.  How  the  cold  did  nip  nnd  pinch  us  in 
that  little  wooden  bedroom !  Not  the  northernmost 
spare  chamber  in  a  country  house  at  home,  that  had 
not  been  slept  in  for  a  score  of  winters,  could  equal 
the  cruel  chill,  as  with  chattering  teeth  we  crept  be- 
tween our  two  feather-beds.  We  felt  ourselves  sand- 
wiched in  the  eternal  snows,  and  the  brethren  would 
have  to  send  the  dogs  to  our  rescue  before  midnight. 

It  could  be  no  worse;  but  it  was  scarcely  better 
when  we  crept  out  again  in  the  small  houra  of  the 
morning  and  found  our  way  to  the  chapel.  A  gor- 
geous mass  was  going  on,  and  whatever  may  be  the 
personal  privations  of  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard^  they 
certainly  spare  no  splendor  to  the  service  of  God. 
The  lace  on  the  priests'  robes  is  as  deep  as  in  any 
cathedral  in  the  land.  The  black-robed  martyrs  come 
in  slowly,  prostrate  themselves  for  a  prayer  or  two, 
and  go  out  again.  The  ragamuffins,  whom  we  saw 
.first,  come  in  too,  and  are  very  devout  indeed ;  but  it 
would  seem  that  the  dogs  might  understand  the  ser- 
vice as  well  as  they. '  Afterwards  we  munch  the  usual 
French  breakfast  of  a  roll  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  and,  still 
shivering,  we  go  out  of  doors  to  look  up  at  the  snowy 
peaks  that  keep  watch  and  ward  over  the  Hospice. 
15 


226  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

A  wooden  cross  marks  the  dividing  line  from  Italy, 
and  we  rush  with  a  sudden  hot  thrill  in  our  veins  to 
set  our  feet  on  its  classic  ground. 

"  Italia,  O  Italia,  thou  that  hast  the  fatal  gift  of  beauty  !  "  -— 

if  we  never  see  thee  nearer,  at  least  we  have  touched 
the  hem  of  thy  garment! 

Then  the  brother  takes  down  a  key  from  the  outer 
wall,  and  with  a  solemn  countenance  opens  a  myste- 
rious door.  It  is  the  "Morgue,"  or  home  of  the  dead, 
who  have  been  found  frozen  on  the  mountain  by  the 
dogs.  The  dry  air  withers  and  preserves  them  in  the 
same  attitude  in  which  they  were  found.  In  the  dim, 
vault-like  room,  shadowy  forms  lean  against  the  wall, 
with  hollow  eye-sockets  turned  towards  the  door,  and 
nearest  to  us  is  the  body  of  a  mother  holding  her  baby 
on  her  arm.  She  is  wrapped  in  a  sheet,  for  when  she 
was  found  she  had  stripped  herself  to  keep  the  child 
warm.  Shq  is  just  another  verse  of  that  sweet  old 
poem  of  mother-love  that  will  keep  on  singing  itself 
while  the  world  lasts,  and  cannot  be  surpassed  in  mel- 
ody even  by  the  angels.  This  roomful  of  the  dead  is 
kept  always  the  same,  that  any  surviving  friends  who 
may  come  in  search  of  them  can  have  the  opportunity 
to  identify  them.  The  thing  has  come  to  pass  even 
years  after  death.  A  haunting  horror  clings  about  this 
silent  company ;  but  it  is  so  faint  and  dim  in  its  effect, 
that  in  five  minutes  after  the  door  was  shut  I  was 
almost  sure  that  it  did  not  really  exist,  and  I  had  only 
dreamed  it. 

The  courtesy  of  the  black-eyed  brother  clung  to  us 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  227 

to  the  last;  but  when  we  ventured  to  offer  him  money, 
he  shrank  from  it  as  if  it  would  contaminate  him,  and 
led  us  to  the  little  box  in  the  chapel.  Here  we  meek- 
ly dropped  in  our  Napoleons,  said  the  last  words  in 
broken  French,  and  turned  the  heads  of  our  mules 
towards  Martigny  and  warm  weather. 


228  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


PARIS. 


"  There  is  only  one  Paris ;  and  out  of  Paris  there  is  no  sal- 
vation for  decent  people."  —  **  The  Baron,"  in  Hyperion. 

MOST  people  bridge  the  gulf  between  Geneva  and 
Paris  by  a  night  journey ;  but  it  is  an  inhuman 
way  of  doing  penance  for  one's  sins,  and  must  have 
been  invented  by  the  great  enemy  of  mankind.  The 
surest  recipe  for  making  night  hideous  is  to  sit  through 
the  weary  hours,  ironically  called  "  small,"  staring  in 
the  faces  of  four  other  unfortunates,  distorted  by  the 
glimmer  of  a  shaking  lamp  overhead. 

Crossing  the  Styx  is  nothing  to  it.  We  made  the 
journey  luxuriously  in  two  days,  stopping  a  night  in 
Macon,  noted  as  the  birthplace  of  Lamartine,  the 
"  literary  Don  Juan,"  whose  books  are  to  other  litera- 
ture like  French  kickshaws  to  solid  beef  and  mutton. 
Lamartine's  career  would  have  abundantly  glorified  a 
short  life;  but  he  had  the  bad  taste  to  live  too  long, 
and  to  become  a  sort  of  poor  relation  to  the  French 
government.  His  chateau  in  Macon  has  come  down, 
in  its  old  age,  to  be  used  for  wine  cellars  and  a  b6ard- 
ing-school  for  girls.  We  literally  drove  into  the  pleas- 
ant hotel  at  Macon  in  an  omnibus,  and  pulled  up  in  the 


A   WOMAN'S   VACATION  ^  229 

court-yard,  which  is  the  heart  of  a  French  house.  All 
its  business  converges  to  that  centre.  It  is  a  French- 
man's castle  —  he  buys  a  bit  of  land  and  builds  a  house 
all  around  it. 

Here  was  first  served  up  to  us  a  flower  of  Gallic 
cookery,  so  folded  in  mystery  that  we  tasted  and  tasted, 
and  could  not  christen  it.  We  had  eaten  strange 
compounds  before — unaccountable  meat  and  nameless 
vegetables  smothered  in  witch-broth,  "thick  and  slab." 
Only  to  taste  of  them  was  a  triumph  of  faith ;  but  this 
dainty  dish  was  a  delicious  riddle  without  an  answer. 
Halves  of  large  tomatoes,  with  the  contents  scooped 
out,  served  for  baking  dishes ;  these  were  filled  with 
mystery,  chopped  fine  and  browned  over.  The  beauty 
of  it  was,  that  it  never  tasted  twice  alike.  It  was  oys- 
ters, chicken,  sweet  herbs,  eggs,  cheese,  bread-crumbs, 
pickles,  sardines,  lemons  —  "everything  by  turns,  and 
notliing  long." 

The  French  country,  as  we  saw  it,  was  flat  and  fer- 
tile, commonplace  and  restful,  after  the  extravagances 
of  Swiss  scenery.  Was  it  Talleyrand  who  said  no  one 
would  appreciate  the  comfort  of  marrying  a  "s^^^/)^cZ" 
unless  he  had  associated  with  intellectual  women  all 
his  days? 

It  is  on  this  principle  that  the  dull  rows  of  poplar 
trees  that  serve  in  the  [)lace  of  fences  find  favor  in  our 
eyes,  though,  looked  at  merely  as  a  tree,  it  is  a  vege- 
table failure.  A  Lombardy  poplar  is  just  a  wood-cut 
of  an  elderly  sj)inster  of  the  scrawny  type,  holding  up 
her  skirts,  and  picking  her  way  over  the  puddles  in  a 
wet  day  —  a  tree  nipped  in  the  bud,  reluctant  to  give 
shade,  like  a  character  frozen   by  early  neglect.    If 


230  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

men  harl  invented  trees,  their  first  attempt  must  have 
looked  like  a  poplar. 

On  French  railways  travellers  are  treated  like  express 
packages,  "to  be  kept  this  side  up  with  care;"  but 
nothing  is  left  to  their  discretion.  They  are  fastened 
into  pens  till  the  train  is  ready,  and  any  question  about 
the  journey  is  received  by  an  official  with  much  the 
same  expression  that  must  have  come  over  Balaam's 
face  when  his  ass  spoke  to  him. 

On  French  soil,  except  in  the  matter  of  shopping, 
one  does  not  need  more  than  half  his  wits  —  there  is 
such  a  surplus  among  the  natives. 

On  the  frontier  our  passports  were  demanded  for  Ihe 
first  time.  The  train  was  remorselessly  emptied,  even 
to  hand-bags  and  shawl-straps,  and  the  w^hole  herd 
passed  through  a  strait  gate,  under  the  eyes  of  four 
men  in  cocked  hats,  to  the  baggage-room.  The  first 
comers  had  their  passports  examined  and  compared 
with  their  faces ;  but  custom-house  officers  are  mortal, 
after  all,  and  having  verified  a  score  or  two  of  "me- 
dium "  noses  and  chins,  they  relaxed  their  severity,  and 
passed  without  a  word  the  shrinking  rear-guard,  who 
had  no  passports  at  all.  Three  or  four  dingy  trunks, 
helonsjinor  to  a  distracted  little  German  milliner,  w^ere 
opened,  and  found  to  be  nearly  or  quite  empty;  but  not 
Abiaham  himself,  when  he  tried  to  pass  his  beautiful 
Sarah  in  a  wooden  chest  through  the  Egyptian  custom- 
house, could  have  made  more  fuss  about  it.  The  moral 
of  travelling  with  empty  coffers  seemed  to  be  that  tak- 
ing full  trunks  to  Paris  would  be  like  carrying  coals  to 
Newcastle.  We  had  been  travelling  to  this  point 
with  a  solid  old  German  couple,  and  my  last  sight  of 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  231 

them  makes  the  frontispiece  to  all  my  German  memo- 
ries: she  carried  four  leather  bags,  and  he  carried — • 
his  cane. 

"Tills  is  the  patient,  gentle,  unprovoked, 
And  unprovoking,  never-answering  she." 

The  first  impression  of  Paris,  as  one  leaves  the  train 
in  the  great  depot,  is  thnt  the  whole  city  is  held  in  the 
hollow  of  a  powerful  hand,  that  would  regulate  even 
its  breathing.  The  cheerful  and  distracting  bustle  of 
our  home  railway  stations,  where  nobody  has  any  rights 
except  hackmen,  is  replaced  by  an  orderly  stilhjess,  de- 
piK^ssing  to  a  traveller  who  lias  braced  himself  for  a 
hand-to-hand  fight  over  his  baggage,  and  is  at  least 
sure  of  one  who  is  glad  to  see  liim.  Every  cabman  is 
seated  on  his  vehicle,  as  in  a  funereal  cortege.  Not 
one  can  stir  until  the  chief  of  the  omnibiises  has  had 
the  fiist  chance.  The  baggage  is  handed  out  slowly 
and  carefully  —  you  give  your  word  of  honor  that  it 
contains  neither  tobacco  nor  spirits  —  a  man  in  uni- 
form makes  a  cross  on  it  —  and  the  omnibus  driver, 
selected  by  the  chief,  takes  possession  of  it  and  its 
owner.  It  is  so  painfully  systematic,  that  one  feels  like 
a  convict  going  to  prison.  This  effect  is  not  lessened 
on  arriving  at  a  hotel,  when  little  blanks  are  handed  in 
by  the  police  to  be  filled  up  with  one's  name,  birth- 
place, last  stop  I  ling-place,  and  occupation.  The  last 
item  was  a  little  difliicult  to  define:  one  of  us  was  a 
teacher ;  all  the  rest  were  time-killers,  and  nothing  more. 

London  is  like  a  collection  of  towns,  one  over  against 
another  —  it  may  be  studied  and  absorbed  in  pieces; 
but  Paris  is  one  and  indivisible,  not  to  be  learned  in  a 


\ 


232  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

lifetime.  One  can  only  describe  little  tags  and  edges 
of  it ;  and  that  is  why  all  the  world  conies,  and  comes 
again,  to  look  at  the  beauty  of  its  sphinx-like  face,  and 
make  another  guesa  at  its  meaning.  There  must  be 
great  poverty,  and  suffering,  and  crime  in  Paris;  but 
they  do  not  flont  on  the  surflice  so  brazenly  as  in  Lon- 
don. Louis  Napoleon  has  made  misery  half  ashamed 
of  itself  in  his  broad,  white  streets,  where  Parisians 
can  no  longer  throw  up  a  barricade  of  paving-stones 
and  fight  out  a  campaign  in  a  night.  There  is  no  old 
dirt  or  dim  relimous  licrht  anvwhere.  The  sidewalks 
are  often  thirty  feet  wide,  and  one  never  sees  a  crowd 
so  dense  as  in  the  x\merican  cities,  where  the  sidewjflk 
looks,  afar  off,  like  a  moving  hank  of  many-shaded  and 
bright-colored  worsted. 

The  Bonaparte  dynasty  has  wrought  a  great  "'N" 
into  so  many  stony  places,  an\l  hung  it  Avith  such 
delicate  sculptures,  that,  for  the  sake  of  what  goes 
with  it,  even  a  Bourbon  would  hesitate  to  erase  it. 
The  outrages  of  the  Communists  are  like  so  many 
gaping  wounds  in  a  fair  body.  The  broken  walls  of 
the  Hotel  de  Ville  will  scarcely  rise  up  before  the 
Parisian  crater  belches  fire  again.  This  was  Lamar- 
tine's  battle-ground  —  for  three  days  he  stood  on  a 
balcony  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  threw  down  little 
sops  of  oratory  to  appease  the  raging  Cerberus  of  the 
mob  that  filled  the  court-yard.  When  a  savage  cry 
for  his  head  reached  him,  he  said  h.e  wished  that  every 
one  of  them  had  his  liead  on  their  shoulders,  which 
moved  the  crowd  to  a  grim  mirth  and  dispersed  it. 
The  hungriest  French  stomach  can  always  be  staid 
with  a  bou  mot. 


A   WOMAJV'S   VACATION.  233 

The  Column  Vendome,  twined  with  Napoleon's  vic- 
tories, and  crowned  with  his  statue,  broke  into  four 
pieces  when  it  fell.  It  is  to  be  set  up  again,  and  the 
cracks  smoothed  over,  till  another  Commune  lays  it 
low.  Napoleon's  son,  who  came  so  gorgeously  into  the 
world,  and  went  so  lamely  out  of  it,  wrote  in  the 
album  of  a  French  count  about  returning  to  Paris, 
"  Tell  the  Column  Yendome  that  I  die  because  I  can 
never  see  it!"  The  French  lay  all  defects  in  their 
present  state  at  the  door  of  the  Commune,  as  islanders 
in  tiie  tropics  attribute  everything  that  goes  wrong  to 
the  last  hurricane. 

On  every  public  building  is  written  up,  in  large  let- 
ters, the  favorite  cry  of  the  mob,  "Liberty,  Equality, 
and  Fraternity,"  as  if  it  were  possible  for  either  of 
these  three  thins^s  to  be  realized  in  France.  This  was 
done  in  Louis  Phillipe's  time  to  ward  off  the  desecrat- 
ing fury  of  the  mob.     They  should  have  written  — 

**  A  change  —  my  kingdom  for  a  change !  " 

or,  better  still,  the  favorite  maxim  of  Jonathan  Wild, 
"Never  to  do  any  more  mischief  than  was  necessary 
to  the  effecting  his  purpose,  for  that  mischief  was  too 
2)recious  to  be  thrown  away." 

Part  of  the  brightness  of  Paris  streets  radiates  from 
the  white  ruffled  caps  of  the  women,  who  seem  to  have 
most  of  the  business  of  the  city  on  their  minds. 

The  French  type  of  face  is  much  more  like  the 
American  than  any  other  —  they  look  equally  keen- 
eyed,  alert,  and  quick-witted.  1  constantly  mistook 
one  for  the  other.     Market  women  in  white  frilled  caps 


234  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

look  up  witli  the  same  set  of  features  that  one  may  see 
on  New  England  doorsteps  in  the  twilight  —  sharp-cut 
faces  with  early  wrinkles,  and  not  an  ounce  of  flesh  to 
spare.  It  confirms  the  theory  that  Nature  makes  faces 
by  the  dozen,  in  the  same  mould,  and  just  scatters  them 
broadcast  without  distinction  of  nation.  There  is  an- 
other reason,  however,  for  the  pervading  American 
tinge  in  Paris  streets.  There  is  a  permanent  popula- 
tion of  twenty  thousand  Americans ;  and  in  September 
all  those  who  have  been  summering  in  Europe  come 
back  to  Paris  fur  more  last  words,  and  to  spend  all  the 
dollars  they  have  left.  In  this  September,  Paris  gave 
wet  welcome  lo  her  devotees.  It  rained  every  day 
for  three  weeks,  with  a  chilling  wind  worse  than  east, 
which  made  furs  comfortable,  and  brought  a  golden 
crop  to  cabmen.  Boston,  in  ils  most  abnndoned 
month,  was  never  guilty  of  such  a  "spell  of  weather." 

Speaking  of  cabmen,  their  tariff  is  sternly  fixed  for 
them  by  law;  but  they  creep  out  of  it  by  asking  for  a 
morsel  of  drink-money,  which  you  must  pay  or  hear  a 
volley  of  "sacr-r-r-s"  rolling  after  you  like  big  stones. 
After  one  of  them  had  pulled  his  horse  up  from  a  fall, 
he  got  down  from  his  seat  and  kissed  him  on  the  nose  — 
a  touching  little  attention  to  the  animal's  feelings,  which 
should  be  added  to  the  regulations  of  the  "Society  for 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals." 

The  great  stones  on  the  bridges  and  edges  of  the 
Seine  are  numbered  in  staring:  fiu^ures.  I  could  not 
learn  for  what  reason;  but  they  must  be  convenient 
for  making  appointments.  Servant  girls  who  live  in 
families  where  no  followers  are  allowed,  probably  meet 
them  at  such  a  number  on  the  river  bank. 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  235 

The  shops  are  scarcely  as  brilliant  as  in  the  large 
American  cities;  but  they  are  dedicated  poetically  to 
"spring-time,"  or  to  "a  coquette,"  or  to  "thoughts," 
with  a  pansy  for  a  trade-mark  on  their  cards.  One 
shop,  for  selling  only  velvet  cloaks,  is  dedicated  to 
"the  Child  Jesus."  Americans  are  received  in  French 
shops  as  to  their  mothers'  arms.  Nothing  is  too  good 
for  them,  and  nothing  can  equal  the  price  they  are 
expected  to  pay.  After  the  lofty  indifference  of  home 
shopmen,  the  obsequiousness  of  French  clerks  seems 
almost  ironical.  The  perfumed  essence  of  all  Parisian 
shopping  is  in  the  Palais  Royal,  where  one  finds  the 
luxuries  of  life  in  profusion,  and  cares  no  longer  for  its 
necessnrics  —  real  jewels,  such  as  the  Shah  of  Persia/ 
lately  bought  for  himself^  and  mock  jewels,  such  as  he^^ 
bought  for  his  wives  —  precious  boxes  in  silver,  porce- 
lain, and  Russia  leather,  for  holding  things  still  more 
precious  —  china,  rare  without  being  ugly,  for  it  is  only 
in  England  that  ugliness  brings  a  high  price.  It  was 
once  the  palace  of  Louis  XIII. ,  and  ornaments,  such  as 
now  lie  on  satin  in  the  shop  windows,  then  shone  on 
the  white  bosoms  of  beautiful  women. 

Ninon  de  I'Enclos  lived  near  it  —  the  woman  who 
came  nearest  to  discovering  the  elixir  of  youth  since 
Time  forgot  her  —  and  she  lived  to  fascinate  three 
generations  of  Frenchmen,  father,  son,  and  grandson, 
in  turn.  It  seems  to  me  she  must  have  besjun  to  fade 
from  the  moment  that  her  unconscious  son  made  love 
to  her,  and,  when  she  broke  the  truth  to  him,  fled  into 
the  g.irden  and  killed  himself. 

Not  far  off  lived  Madame  de  Sevigne,  whose  love 
letters  to  her  daughter  were  so  daintily  affectionate,  so 


236  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

whipped  into  the  cream  of  worship,  that  one  would 
have  thouo^ht  mother-h)ve  a  new  thinor  under  the  sun. 
These  letters  are  full  of  history  seen  through  feminine 
and  aristocratic  prejudices,  which  do  somewhat  turn  it 
inside  out;  but  it  is  the  rare  devotion  of  one  woman 
to  another  that  "  makes  one  love  the  very  ink  that 
wrote  them." 

If  the  Evil  One  had  a  second  Eve  to  tempt  in  these 
latter  days,  he  would  no  longer  climb  a  tree  and  hold 
out  a  paltry  apple ;  but  he  would  gently  lead  her  round 
the  Palais  Royal,  secure  that  if  her  principles  had  a 
price  they  would  find  it  there. 

We  drove  one  day  through  the  "Rue  Adam."  "I 
wonder,"  said  Juno,  "if  there  is  a  *Rue  Eve.'"  "No," 
said  St.  Ursula.  "  We  all  rue  Eve  bitterly  enough, 
without  posting  it  on  a  street  corner."  The  "Rue  4^°^*^ 
Se})tembre  "  suggests  a  bright  idea  to  street  namers, 
as  there  are  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  in  the 
year  to  choose  from. 

French  housekeeping  is  easy  as  breathing,  compared 
with  the  hard  work  we  make  of  it.  One  gives  a  little 
party,  or  the  party  makes  itself,  and  the  "entertain- 
ment," as  some  people  oddly  call  the  supper,  consists 
of  a  bit  of  cake,  and  a  cup  of  tea,  and  a  glass  of  wine, 
and  everybody  is  satisfied.  In  America,  the  four  quar- 
ters of  the  globe  must  be  ransacked  to  furnish  forth 
the  feast.  In  the  city  a  caterer  takes  possession  of 
one's  house  like  a  pillaging  army;  and  in  the  country, 
if  a  lady  can  give  one  large  party  a  year,  and  live 
through  it,  it  is  all  that  her  friends  expect  of  her.  "I 
could  not  endure  the  slavery  of  housekeeping  in  Bos- 
ton," said  a  lady,  who  had  revisited  her  old  home  after 
nine  years  in  Paris. 


A  WOMAN'S  VACATION,     -  237 

It  is  no  wonder  tliat  French  matrons  can  talk  well  — 
then*  thoughts  are  not  stretched  on  a  gridiron  worse 
than  St.  Lawrence's.  In  the  old  English  country- 
houses,  a  passage-way  often  led  from  the  family  pew 
in  the  chapel  into  the  kitchen,  so  that  the  lady  of  the 
manor,  between  her  prayers,  might  see  that  the  game 
was  roasted  to  a  turn.  How  can  an  American  house- 
wife, with  three  or  four  Irish  heathen  in  her  kitchen, 
sit  with  hands  crossed  on  a  satin  lap  and  discourse 
calmly  of  "predestination  and  foreknowledge  abso- 
lute," after  tlie  French  fashion,  in  the  last  critical 
lialf-hour  before  a  dinner  party?  "The  gravy  alone 
is  enough  to  add  twenty  years  to  one's  age,  I  do  assure 
you."  American  women  do  the  thing  every  day,  but 
it  fades  and  bleaches  them  before  their  time.  No 
French  family  makes  its  own  bread ;  the  bakers  do  it 
for  them,  and  do  it  well.  Tall  narrow  loaves,  nearly  a 
yard  long,  stand  about  in  corners  like  so  many  utnbrel- 
las ;  and  you  meet  men  going  about  with  round  loaves, 
having  a  hole  in  the  middle,  strung  the  whole  length 
of  their  arms,  and  if  any  mother-earth  cleave  to  the 
bread  from  the  coat-sleeve,  so  much  the  worse  for  the 
eater  thereof;  it  is  apparently  no  concern  of  the  buyer 
or  seller.  The  first  meal  of  the  day  is  a  roll  and  a  cup 
of  coffee  taken  in  one's  chamber,  and  the  real  break- 
fast of  .meat  and  eggs  w^aits  till  noon.  Americans 
must  always  associate  with  French  mornings  a  terrible 
feehng  of  goneness.  A  very  little  food  goes  a  great 
way  in  a  French  dinner;  but  it  is  truly  gluttonous  in 
clean  plates.  The  interstices  are  expected  to  be  filled 
up  with  bread.  It  is  always  the  same  tune  with  varia- 
tions.    First  a  colored  and  flavored  water  called  soup  — 


238  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

this  implies  a  great  deal  of  bread;  then  "a  portion" 
of  fish,  then  a  dish  of  gravy  with  inscrutable  contents, 
then  a  lonely  vegetable,  like  cauliflower  or  beans. 
This  habit  of  serving  one  insignificant  weed  (often  it 
is  artichokes)  with  a  flourish  of  clean  plates,  and  noth- 
ing for  a  background,  was  to  me  a  perpetual  anti- 
climax—  "in  the  name  of  the  Prophet — tigs!"  After 
this  sustaining  morsel  conie's  the  great  gun  of  the  din- 
ner,  slices  of  meat  or  fowl  with  lettuce.  Afterwards 
there  is  nothing  worth  mentioning.  Compared  with 
our  custom,  the  French  dessert  should  be  spelled  with 
one  5. 

A  bird  of  passage  in  Paris  must  see  so  many  things 
that  there  is  no  time  left  to  study  the  people.  One 
cannot  verify  at  a  glance  the  tradition  of  grace  and 
exquisite  manner  which  have  been  the  birthright  of 
French  women  through  all  time.  At  this  time  there 
was  a  comedy  playing  in  a  Paris  theatre  showing  up 
the  free  manners  of  American  society,  in  one  scene  of 
which  a  young  lady  at  a  party  rushes  up  to  a  man 
and  kisses  him  at  first  sight;  but  there  was  in  our 
hotel  a  young  couple  that  might  have  gone  bodily  on 
to  our  stage  as  French  caricatures,  witliout  altering  a 
thread  about  them.  Monsieur  X.  had  a  hair-dresser 
attend  him  daily,  and  his  chief  occupation  was  gently 
manipulating  his  Hyacinthine  locks  with  an  exquisitely- 
kept  white  hand,  as  one  sees  actresses  express  their 
feelings  and  settle  their  wigs  at  the  same  time;  but 
Madame  X.!  she  might  have  been  set  up  in  a  milli- 
ner's window  for  a  wax  figure,  and  no  one  would  ever 
have  discovered  the  mistake.  She  was  to  her  fellows- 
boarders  like  a  bird  of  paradise  among  brown  wrens. 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION,  239 

She  Imd  orange-colored  hair  (so  intense  in  color  that 
pea-green  or  sky-blue  would  have  been  equally  natural) 
laid  up  on  her  bead  in  loose  j)ufFs  that  looked  as  if 
each  one  had  been  made  separately,  and  stuck  in  its 
right  place.  In  shady  nooks  behind  her  ears,  this 
resplendent  color  changed  to  a  dull  brown,  which  was 
doubtless  its  first  estate..  She  rouged  her  cheeks  and 
tinted  her  lips,  pencilled  her  eyebrows,  and  darkened 
the  lids,  made  her  veins  blue  with  "azurene,"  and 
whited  the  whole  sepulchre  with  pearl-powder.  If  she 
could  have  lived  and  died  by  gas-light,  she  would  never 
liave  lost  her  beauty;  but  the  garish  and  impertinent 
morninir  sun  would  show  where  one  color  left  off  and 
another  began. 

After  a  toilet  of  four  solid  hours,  she  came  to  a  little 
soiree,  robed  in  three  or  four  shades  of  purple  silk 
relieved  with  white  satin,  and  we  held  our  breath  to 
look  at  her;  but  she  would  have  been^very  unsafe  to 
kiss.  She  danced  laboriously,  like  most  foreigners, 
swinging  her  skirts  high  from  the  floor,  and  her  part- 
ner mopped  his  face,  after  it  was  over,  as  if  he  had 
been  in  a  hay-field  in  midsummer. 

The  Americans  on  the  same  floor  danced  so  sub- 
duedly  to  the  same  music,  that  they  seemed  to  be  doing 
an  entirely  different  thing.  When  a  Frenchman  dances 
with  a  young  girl,  he  is  expected  not  to  exchange  a 
word  with  her  from  the  moment  that  he  takes  her  from 
her  chaperon's  side  till  he  brings  her  back  again. 
Monsieur  X.  went  away  for  a  week's  hunting,  leaving 
two  thick  books  for  his  wife's  reading,  with  the  injunc- 
tion not  to  leave  her  room  unnecessarily.  Her  con- 
jugal rendering  of  this  command  was  to  practise  an 


240  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

affectionate  little  comedy  with  a  handsome  young  jour- 
naliist,  who  had  frequented  the  house  for  some  time 
under  cover  of  visiting  a  sick  aunt  —  never  was  aunt 
so  tended  before !  At  this  very  time,  Madame  X.  was 
shocked  and  horrified  by  an  American  girl  sitting  on  a 
sofa  with  a  young  man  whom  she  had  known  from 
childhcod,  and  who  brought  news  of  her  family.  Mon- 
sieur X.  came  Ijome  a  day  before  his  time,  as  men  all 
over  the  world  have  an  uncomfortable  habit  of  doing, 
and  brought  her  iniquity  to  light.  He  sent  for  his 
hair-dresser  immediately;  but  I  know  not  what  was 
her  penance.  One  could  not  help  wondering  if  these 
two  artificial  people,  being  reduced  to  their  lowest 
terms,  would  recognize  each  other.  The  lady  could 
not  have  been  more  than  twenty-two.  Time,  the 
avenger,  had  scarcely  laid  a  finger  on  her;  but  a 
woman  of  seventy  could  not  have  labored  harder  to 
hide  his  ravages.  If  such  things  are  done  in  the  green 
tree,  what  will  be  done  in  the  dry?  But  to  know  all 
French  women  by  these  presents,  is  as  unjust  as  to 
judge  all  American  women  by  those  who  lecture  on 
Woman's  Rights.  They  have  no  beauty  that  one 
should  desire  them;  but  Madame  X.  was  a  work  of 
art  whose  shades  and  perspective  I  was  never  tired  of 
studying. 

The  Paris  houses  are  high  and  spacious.  Everything 
is  on  a  grand  scale,  except  the  bowls  and  pitchers  in 
the  bedrooms.  These  aie  mere  cups  and  saucers,  com- 
pared with  English  ones.  Travelling  Frenchmen  are 
always  surprised  at  the  profuse  arrangements  for  bath- 
ing among  Anglo-Saxons.  M.  Taine  wondered  over 
the  waste  of  towels  in  English  country-houses^  as  a  pig 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  241 

might  turn  np  its  eyes  at  seeing  a  cat  wash  her  face,  or 
a  sober-minded  hen  contemn  the  frequent  ablutions  of 
a  duck.  Living  in  Paris  is  not  so  preternaturally  cheap 
as  one  commonly  supposes.  One  may  hire  a  modest 
flat  of  perhaps  six  small  rooms  for  about  sixty  dollars 
a  month,  and  one  may  be  barely  comfortable  in  a  hotel 
for  two  dollars  a  day.  French  reception  rooms  have 
their  sofa^  often  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  which 
gives  a  cosy,  talkative  air  to  them  even  when  empty. 
The  shining  waxed  floors  are  much  cleaner  than  woollen 
carpets;  but  the  perpetual  clicking  of  boot-heels  and 
the  necessity  of  taking  perpetual  heed  to  one's  steps, 
as  if  every  floor  was  a  pond  frozen  over,  condemn 
them.  The  servants  polish  these  floors  with  brushes 
fastened  to  their  feet. 

The  favorite  night  for  French  parties  is  Saturday, 
that  they  may  make  Sunday  a  day  of  rest,  according 
to  the  commandment.  A  good  Catholic  sees  no  harm 
in  dancing  in  the  sacred  hours,  and  scorns  the  scruples 
of  over-strict  Protestants,  as  David  scorned  the  pru- 
dishness  of  Michal,  daughter  of  Saul,  when  she  reproved 
him  for  dancing  before  the  ark.  The  races  begin  on 
the  first  Sunday  in  September,  and  divide  Catholics 
and  heretics  like  sheep  from  the  goats.  All  the  ])leas- 
ures  of  life  are  crowded  into  a  French  Sunday.  The 
Fourth  of  July  is  a  fast-day  to  it.  The  shops  are 
nearly  all  open,  and  if  one  is  closed,  the  notice  is  put 
up  in  large  letters,  as  who  should  say,  "I  am  more 
righteous  than  my  neighbors." 

Parisians  who  shut  up  their  shops  on  Sunday  bear 
the  same  relation  to  their  fellow-sinners  that  we,  who 
go  to  church  three  times,  besides  Sunday  school,  do  to 
16 


242  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

those  who  believe  in  one  sermon  a  dny  and  a  drive  in 
the  afternoon.  An  American  minister  went  to  call  on 
a  French  brother  "  of  the  cloth  "  on  a  Sunday  evening, 
and  after  talking  about  the  state  of  the  church,  the 
Frenchman  proposed  a  season  of  prayer,  to  which  the 
other  readily  acceded;  but  in  the  midst  of  it  he 
jumf)ed  up  and  excused  himself,  as  he  had  forgotten 
an  appointment  with  a  lady  to  go  to  the  opera  on  that 
evening. 

Our  Urst  Sunday  in  Paris  was  a  very  pious  one,  if 
going  to  church  oiten  be  a  proof  of  it.  We  went  first 
to  Notre  Dame,  w^here  all  the  French  grandeur  that 
required  a  mixture  of  religion  has  been  consummated. 
My  choice  of  all  its  pageants  would  have  been  the 
coronation  of  Josephine  —  there  was  "richness;"  and 
yet  Madame  Junot  tells  us  that  Napoleon  found  time 
to  observe  her  black  velvet  dress  and  tell  her  it  was 
too  sombre  for  the  occasion.  His  own  crimson  robe, 
studded  with  golden  bees,  is  still  kept  among  the 
treasures  of  the  church.  Notre  Dame  lacks  the  dim, 
shadowy  beauty  of  the  German  cathedrals.  It  is  so 
light,  and  white,  and  cheerful,  that  nobody  doubts  for 
a  moment  that  it  was  built  by  men  and  Frenchmen. 
There  is  no  loneliness  so  complete  as  that  of  a  heretic 
in  a  Catholic  church.  The  glory  of  its  bigness  biings 
reverence,  and  the  organ  floats  the  thoughts  upward 
on  great  weaves  of  sound.  One  cannot  follow  the  un- 
familiar service,  and  one  goes  easily  out  of  the  body 
into  the  region  of  day-dreams  —  the  clear  voice  of  a 
child-chorister,  rising  like  a  flute  above  a  whole  orches- 
tra, mingles  with  them  —  priests  moving  to  and  fro  do 
not  disturb  them;  day-dreams  in  which  old  mistakes 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION,  213 

right  themselves,  and  lost  friends  come  to  life  again  — 
the  spell  remains  when  the  music  ceases,  but  it  vanishes 
as  we  go  down  the  aisle  and  see  an  old  man  holding 
out  to  us  a  brush,  precisely  like  the  paste-brush  used 
by  paperers.  It  is  wet  in  holy  water,  and  every  Catho- 
lic touches  it  with  a  gloved  finger  and  makes  the  sign 
of  the  cross.  I  think  I  never  stumbled  so  suddenly 
down  the  step  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous. 

Notre  Dame  blossomed  into  a  rare  flower  garden, 
with  walls  carpeted  with  Gobelin  tapestry,  when  the 
young  prince,  Eugenie's  son,  was  christened. 

"It  was  not  half  so  fine  then  as  it  will  be  when  he 
comes  to  his  own  again,"  muttered  the  guide.  "  When 
will  that  be?"  asked  St.  Ursula,  as  if  the  day  were 
already  set;  and  the  answer  is  the  universal  shrug  of 
the  shoulders,  which  never  could  have  been  invented 
in  a  free  country.  It  needed  an  iron  despotism  to  pro- 
duce something  which  should  mean  more  than  speech, 
and  yet  never  be  told  again,  and  the  French  shrug  is 
the  result ;  the  Bastile  and  the  guillotine  were  its  god- 
fathers. Americans  will  never  import  it,  because  they 
have  no  use  for  it. 

In  the  red-hot  time  of  the  Commune,  much  vitriol 
and  kerosene  were  set  apart  for  the  destruction  of 
Notre  Dame;  but  the  saints  preserved  it.  Perhaps  St. 
Denis,  who  is  believed  by  the  pious  to  have  walked 
through  the  streets  of  Paris  with  his  head  under  his 
arm,  had  an  eye  to  it,  or  sweet  St.  Genevieve,  who 
began  life  as  a  little  shepherdess  on  the  hills,  and  grew 
into  such  faith  that  she  prayed  away  the  heathen 
Huns,  who  were  coming  to  sack  the  city;  but  these 
were  lambs  compared  with  the  wolfish  Communists. 


244  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

St.  Genevieve  takes  care  of  Paris,  and  has  her. hands 
full;  but  the  patron  saint  of  all  France  is  Clotilde, 
wife  of  Clovis,  wlio  converted  her  husband  and  all  his 
subjects  to  Christianity  tlirough  great  tribulation,  and  a 
very  bellicose  kind  of  a  Christian  he  was,  after  all. 
When  the  touching  story  of  the  crucifixion  was  read 
to  him,  he  grasped  his  sword  and  cried  out,  "If  I  had 
only  been  there  with  my  brave  Franks,  I  would  have 
killed  all  those  wicked  Jews ! "  The  French  relitifion 
must  have  a  deal  of  killing  in  it,  to  make  the  nation 
happy. 

The  church  of  the  "Madeleine,"  where  Father  Hya- 
cinthe  preached  before  he  was  cast  out,  is  built  like  a 
Greek  temple.  The  benutiful  altar-piece  of  white  mar- 
ble, and  the  purity  of  the  whole  interior,  scarcely  fitted 
the  gaudy  pomp  of  the  high  mass  that  was  going  on 
when  we  entered.  It  was  the  feast  of  the  Virgin,  and 
a  group  of  women,  veiled  in  white  from  head  to  foot, 
made  part  of  the  procession  that  followed  the  "Host" 
down  the  aisle.  The  priests  about  the  altar  kicked  out 
their  scarlet  trains,  as  I  have  seen  rural  brides  do  as 
they  posed  themselves  for  marriage  with  their  backs 
to  the  company.  The  audience  was  exceedingly  well 
dressed,  and  we  remained  seated,  like  obstinate  heretics 
as  we  were,  studying  the  latest  style  in  bonnets,  until 
an  old  lady  near  us,  who  shook  with  palsy  so  that  she 
could  scarcely  hold  her  prayer-book,  spoke  to  the  sex- 
ton about  us;  and  after  that  we  rose  and  fell  with  the 
crowd.  It  was  a  bit  of  the  old  delusion  that  Catholics 
)  have  bought  the  only  road  to  heaven  and  fenced  it  in. 
Every  one  of  them  would  be  a  persecutor,  if  he  could ; 
even  the  palsy  could  not  shake  that  spirit  out  of  them ; 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION,  245 

anfl  yet  the  Catholic  church  is  a  motherly  refuge  to  its 
children,  working  hard  to  save  them  against  their  will, 
comforting  their  souls  with  absolution,  and  putting  a 
stone  on  their  heads  that  they  may  never  grow  to  be 
anything  but  children.  "  It  would  be  one  of  the  most 
perfect  engines  ever  put  together,"  says  Hawthorne, 
"if  it  only  had  angels  to  run  it." 

From  the  Madeleine  we  strayed  into  the  church  of 
St.  Augustine,  so  bright  and  gay  in  its  pictures  that  it 
would  serve  for  a  lady's  sitting-room.  There  a  hand- 
some young  piiest  was  going  through  with  the  weary 
ceremony  of  a  christening  with  salt  and  oil,  and  all 
that  nonsense,  which  any  right-minded  baby  will  scorn 
as  it  deserves.  This  one  roared  as  if  it  had  heretic 
blood  in  its  veins,  and  would  not  uphold  the  papacy 
on  any  terms. 

Afterwards,  in  a  long  vagabond  walk,  we  came  upon 
the  Pantheon,  once  a  church,  and  then  dedicated  to 
the  great  men  of  France  after  the  nation  had  voted 
God  out  of  their  councils.  In  the  dome-pictures,  the 
artist  has  represented  Glory,  and  Patriotism,  and  Death, 
and  other  intimate  friends  of  Napoleon,  in  the  guise 
of  handsome  and  dishevelled  women ;  but  he  needed 
to  add  no  touch  of  beauty  to  the  figure  of  Napoleon 
in  his  youth  that  he  did  not  already  possess.  By  way 
of  mitigating  the  extreme  grandeur  of  the  interior,  the 
altar  screen  is  made  of  painted  and  gilded  paper,  like 
the  side  scene  of  a  theatre.  Then  we  wandered  into 
the  old-fishioned  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg  palace  — 
eighty-five  acres  of  flowers,  and  fountains,  and  statues, 
where  whole  families  take  their  lunch  and  their  sewing, 
and  spend  Sunday  out  of  doors.     Of  the  men,  some 


246  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

are  playing  ball,  or  cards,  or  drinking  at  little  tables, 
while  the  band  plays  by  the  hour.  Many  of  the  chil- 
dren were  handsome,  with  eyes  that  looked  as  if  they 
had  been  deepened  about  the  edges  with  India  ink. 
It  is  the  southern  sun  that  tints  them.  They  are  rare- 
ly seen  among  Anglo-Saxons.  I  never  heard  a  French 
child  cry;  but  life  cannot  be  all  gardens  to  them. 

The  palace  has  been  changed  to  a  gallery  of  modern 
French  art.  I  don't  think  I  ever  could  have  realized 
what  an  intolerable  old  hag  Queen  Elizabeth  was,  if  I 
had  not  seen  De  La  Roche's  picture  of  her  death  in 
one  of  those  three  thousand  rich  dresses  that  made  her 
wardrobe.  Rosa  Bonheur's  "Ploughing  with  Oxen" 
was  so  rarely  natural,  that  one  could  almost  smell  the 
balmy  breath  of  the  soft-eyed  brutes.  Another  was  a 
"Beggar  Girl,"  with  such  real  tears  dropping  down  her 
cheek,  that,  hung  in  a  sitting-room,  it  would  shortly 
bring  a  whole  family  to  green  and  yellow  melancholy. 
Why  will  people  jDam^  tragedies  when  we  can  haidly 
keep  up  with  the  real  thing  that  is  always  going  on  ? 
Another  solemnity  in  oils  i»  Count  Eberhard  weeping 
over  his  dead  son.  In  the  thirty  years'  war,  when  he 
was  pressing  on  to  conquest,  he  saw  his  son  suddenly 
struck  down,  and  the  soldiers  paused ;  but  he  urged 
them  on,  saying  that  duty  came  before  grief.  When 
the  battle  was  over,  they  found  him  weeping,  as  in  the 
picture.  The  father  has  a  wonderfully  noble  face,  and 
the  son  is  very  dead  indeed.  In  the  hall  of  statuary 
the  air  grows  suddenly  pure  and  cold,  like  marble. 
Here  is  a  young  girl  whispering  her  first  secret  into 
the  ear  of  a  statue  of  Venus;  another  has  just  lifted  a 
smiling  mask  from  her  sad  face;  all  young  girls  might 


A    WOMAN'S  VACATION.  247 

do  that  sooner  or  later  in  their  lives.  The  everlasting 
"Mother  of  the  Gracchi"  is  here  too,  with  her  boys; 
and  the  sculptor  has  given  to  one  of  them  the  head 
of  the  young  Augustus,  which  was  quite  unnecessary, 
since  a  mother's  pride  does  not  depend  on  the  quality 
of  her  children ;  they  are  always  her  jewels,  though 
paste  to  everybody  else. 

The  Luxembourg  has  been  the  scene  of  many  old 
French  attempts  to  invent  a  new  sin.  "Brave  men 
and  fair  women  "played  deep  for  money  and  honor 
within  its  walls.  They  dug  some  of  the  first  trenches 
of  the  Revolution ;  but  the  palace  has  taken  to  virtue 
in  its  old  age,  and  looks  down  peacefully  enough  on 
crowds  of  nurses  and  children,  who  have  taken  the 
place  of  gentlemen  in  powdered  wigs  and  ladies  in 
long  trains. 

The  Parisians  pursue  pleasure  with  an  infinite  zest^ 
but  I  doubt  if  they  really  clasp  it,  because  pleasure  is 
never  the  garment  of  life,  but  only  the  fringe  that  trims 
it,  so  narrow  with  some,  so  broad  with   others.     To 
seek  pleasure  only  is  like  walking  up  to  a  bed  of  migno-   ^ 
nette,  with   malice   aforethought,  to   take   in    all    the    ^ 
perfume  in  one  great  sniff:  it  is  always  a  disappoint-    A^ 
ment ;  but  come  upon  it  unawares,  and  a  little  breeze 
brings  one  a  great  wave  of  fragrance,  that  makes  the 
senses  reel  in  a  sweet  drunkenness. 

Parisians  live  in  a  crowd  all  their  days,  and  are 
buried  in  a  crowd  at  last.  "Pere  La  Chaise"  is  a  city 
of  the  dead  that  needs  a  Louis  Napoleon  to  widen  its 
narrow  streets.  Avenues  of  little  shops  full  of  cofiins 
and  funeral  wreaths  make  guide-boards  to  it  long  be- 
fore we  see  the  gate.     Each  family  has  a  little  tomb, 


248  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

about  six  feet  by  eight,  in  the  shape  of  a  miniature 
temple,  which  is  more  or  less  ornamented  with  statues 
and  artificial  flowers.  The  coffins  are  let  down  through 
the  floor,  one  above  another,  the  lowest  one  in  time 
giving  way,  so  that  it  is  never  full.  The  French  econ- 
omize every  inch  of  space,  after  death  as  well  as  before. 
Many  of  these  vaults  are  sold  only  for  ten  years  — 
quite  time  enough  to  forget  anybody,  according  to 
French  ideas.  Some  are  filled  with  wreaths  of  yellow 
"immortelles,"  brought  there  on  biithdays  by  friends. 

We  had  been  looking  all  day  for  lodgings  in  a  French 
family  for  the  winter,  and  we  gladly  sat  down  to  rest 
on  the  step  of  a  tomb,  while  St.  Ursula  went  in  search 
of  a  guide.  She  was  gone  long  enough  to  buy  one  for 
life.  "  Do  you  suppose,"  said  Juno,  "  that  she  can  be 
looking  for  apartments  here?  We  want  them  very 
^juiet,  you  know,  and  where  the  inhabitants  would 
speak  no  English."  She  appeared  at  last  with  a  guide, 
so  small  and  withered,  that  she  ought  in  conscience  to 
have  got  him  at  half  price. 

In  the  Jewish  quarter  we  found  the  tomb  of  Ra- 
chel, queen  of  the  French  stage,  scribbled  all  over 
with  names  of  foreign  visitors.  No  such  bad  taste 
springs  out  of  French  soil.  Perhaps  Rachel's  acting 
has  never  been  so  well  translated  into  words  as  in 
Charlotte  Bronte's  Villette,  under  the  name  of  "  Vash- 
ti."  The  Rothschilds  have  a  tomb  as  plain  as  any 
Israelite  of  them  all.  French  epitaphs  are  often  quaint 
in  their  simplicity.  "To  a  lady  of  a  noble  heart." 
"Here  lies  the  good  mother  of  a  family."  "I  think," 
said  St.  Ursula,  "that  I  would  rather  be  the  mother 
of  a  good  family."     Marshal  IsTey  has  a  little  enclosure 


A    WOMAN'S  VACATION.  249 

in  an  iron  fence  by  himself,  as  in  our  home  burial- 
places,  and  his  only  monument  is  a  mound  of  scarlet 
geraniums,  as  if  his  generous  blood  had  colored  them. 
He  was  made  of  the  fine  clay  set  apart  for  heroes;  but 
he  had  "a  strong  temptation  to  do  bravely  ill,"  and  he 
yielded  to  it.  In  the  Russian  campaign,  which  Talley- 
rand called  "the  beginning  of  the  end,"  he  would 
charge  a  legion  at  the  head  of  four  men  as  readily 
as  if  he  had  an  army  at  his  back.  He  promised  to 
bring  Napoleon  to  the  Bourbons  in  a  cage,  but  at  tha 
last  moment  packed  his  old  uniform  to  take  with  him, 
and  went  over  to  his  old  friend  at  sight.  The  pride 
or  the  shame  of  his  family  give  him  a  nameless  grave. 

Moliere  and  La  Fontaine  lie  side  by  side.  The  lat- 
ter has  a  fox  on  his  tomb,  and  the  former  should  have 
an  old  woman,  since  he  kept  one,  while  alive,  to  criticise 
his  poetry.  La  Fontaine's  oddity  would  have  made 
him  famous  without  his  fables.  He  met  a  young  man 
in  society  with  whom  he  was  much  pleased,  and  being 
told  that  it  was  his  son,  he  coolly  replied,  "  I  am  glad 
of  it  —  I  like  him." 

The  story  of  Madame  Lavalette  is  told  in  bas-relief 
on  her  monument.  She  saved  her  husband's  life  by 
changing  clothes  with  him,  and  remaining  in  prison  in 
his  ])lace.  If  there  is  a  spot  in  P^re  La  Chaise  which 
may  be  called  cheerful,  it  is  the  region  set  apart  for 
the  poor.  They  lie  close  together  under  little  wooden 
crosses  and  a  coverlet  of  wreaths ;  but  they  have  only 
a  three  years'  lease  of  even  these  close  quarters.  After- 
wards their  bones  are  mingled  together  in  pits  digged 
for  the  purpose. 

Abelard  and  Heloise  lie  side  by  side  in  stony  and 


250  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

mildewed  state  under  a  canopy.  They  "gave  all  for 
love,  and  thought  the  world  well  lost."  There  is  noth- 
ing like  true  love  for  embalming  a  story ;  heroes  and 
martyrs  have  no  such  chance  with  posterity  as  your 
faithful  lover.  Ileloise  had  beauty  and  intellect,  a 
strong  mind  and  a  weak  heart,  and  between  the  two, 
her  teacher,  Abelard,  brought  hdf  to  grief.  They  were 
both  forced  into  convents,  one  by  her  relatives,  and  the 
other  by  contumely;  but  they  loved  to  the  last.  In 
Abelard's  lonely  convent  by  the  sea,  he  fought  with  his 
hunting  and  carousing  monks,  who  retorted  on  him  his 
own  sins,  and  would  have  poisoned  him  in  the  commu- 
nion wine.  From  under  his  abbot's  cowl,  he  groans  to 
a  friend  of  his  youth,  "I  have  not  yet  triumphed  over 
that  unhappy  passion.  In  the  midst  of  my  retirement 
I  sigh,  I  weep,  I  pine,  I  speak  the  dear  name  Heloise, 
and  am  pleased  with  the  sound." 

The  peculiarity  of  this  sad  love  story  is,  that  the 
great  retribution  fell  on  the  man.  No  woman  need  be 
utterly  wretched,  if  she  knows  that  her  lover  is  faithful 
unto  death.  She  may  keep  her  heart  up  under  any 
cross  but  another  woman. 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  251 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

PARIS. 

"  The  nooks  and  corners  of  great  cities  have  a  double  popula- 
tion of  inhabitants  and  recollections." 

IN  "Dame  Europa's  School,"  the  French  boy,  Louis, 
had  the  finest  playhouse  of  all,  and  the  German 
Fritz  casts  envious  eyes  upon  it. 

Paris,  in  these  republican  days,  is  like  a  grand  prop- 
erty in  which  the  owner  has  just  died,  leaving  no  chil- 
dren, and  the  estate  is  not  yet  settled ;  every  one  is 
waiting  for  the  coming  of  the  heir.  The  president's 
proclamations  have  a  deprecatory  strain,  as  who  should 
say,  "  We  will  try  to  hold  things  together  till  some- 
thing turns  up." 

A  republic  in  France  resembles  Marie  Antoinette 
playing  milkmaid  ;  the  imperial  tricks  and  manners  will 
crop  out  in  spite  of  the  disguise.  The  nation  began  in 
barbarous  magnificence,  when  its  earliest  kings  were 
waited  upon  at  table,  on  their  coronation  feast,  by  their 
nobles  on  horseback,  and  it  can  never  break  itself  of 
royal  habits. 

One  of  these  is  the  manufacture  of  Gobelin  tapes- 
try, used  only  for  French  palaces,  and  for  presents  to 
princes.    It  keeps  right  on,  while  Paris  amuses  itself 


252  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

with  democracy,  and  will  have  some  gay  trappings 
really  for  the  heir  when  he  comes. 

It  has  arrived  at  such  perfection,  that  its  woollen 
pictures  are  richer  and  softer  than  any  painting  in  oils. 

The  carpets  do  not  differ  much  from  so-called  velvet 
ones,  except  that  their  pile  is  thicker.  The  workmen 
sit  in  a  row  before  the  web,  putting  in  loops  wdth  hun- 
dreds of  little  shuttles,  wound  with  different  shades  of 
yarn ;  the  painted  pattern  unrolls  above  their  heads  as 
they  need  it.  As  it  is  all  done  by  hand,  a  carpet  is 
often  the  work  of  five  or  ten  years. 

Very  common  looking  men  do  this  work,  but  it  is 
only  a  talented  artist  who  can  deal  with  the  tapestry ; 
they  sit  behind  their  work  as  the  Fates  sit  behind  our 
lives,  and  their  pattern,  painted  in  oils,  is  behind  them. 
In  one  of  these  yarn-pictures,  a  splendid  woman  pick- 
ing oranges  from  a  tree,  was  so  life-like,  that  the  rounded 
arm  looked  as  if  one  could  pinch  it.  Their  portraits  are 
absolutely  perfect;  and  when  one  thinks  that  a  few 
stitches,  with  their  wooden  needles,  too  far  to  right  or 
left,  w^ould  spoil  a  whole  face,  it  appears  how  entirely 
the  beauty  of  the  work  depends  on  the  skill  of  the 
artist,  and  not  at  all  on  the  material.  A  single  piece 
has  been  valued  at  thirty  thousand  dollars,  but  it  can 
often  be  bought  second,  or  forty-second,  hand,  more  or 
less  old  and  faded.  In  the  early  days  of  its  manufac- 
ture, it  was  woven  in  little  pieces  and  sewed  together; 
the  noses  and  chins  were  often  a  miraculous  fit. 

On  the  way  home,  we  wandered  into  the  ancient 
enclosure  of  the  University  of  Sorbonne,  whose  doc- 
tors used  to  take  in  all  the  old  European  tangles  to  be 
straightened  out.     The  respondents  cume  into  court  at 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION,  253 

six  in  the  morning,  and  remained  until  six  at  night, 
without  partaking  of  food :  the  arguments  must  have 
waxed  personal  in  tlie  last  hour  or  two.  The  divorce 
of  Henry  YIII.  from  Catharine  of  Arragon,  and  his 
marri nge  with  Anne  Boleyn,  were  sat  upon  for  many 
days;  the  doctors  disagreed,  but  the  royal  Mormon 
soon  settled  it  for  himself.  When  they  had  nothing 
else  to  do,  they  sharpened  their  wits  on  such  whet- 
stones as  these;  How  many  angels  could  dance  on  the 
point  of  a  fine  needle?  or,  Can  an  angel  go  from  one 
point  to  another  without  passing  over  the  intermediate 
space  ? 

The  heart  of  Paris  is  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  — 
it  has  had  many  names,  and  Place  de  la  Discorde  woidd 
have  suited  it  best  of  all.  Once  an  equestrian  statue 
of  Louis  XV.  adorned  it,  with  figures  of  Justice,  Pru- 
dence, &c.,  at  the  base,  which  provoked  the  bon  mot 
that  all  the  virtues  were  trampled  under  foot  by  Vice  on 
horseback.  Afterwards  the  guillotine  was  set  up  on  the 
same  spot,  and  three  thousand  inaocent  heads  rolled 
on  the  ground,  because  the  sins  of  the  fathers  had 
come  down  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation.  The 
French  Revolution  was  nobly  born  ;  it  had  for  its  ances- 
tors the  finest  aspirations  of  human  nature,  and  it  made 
itself  respected  till  it  meddled  with  women ;  then  all 
the  world  turned  against  it. 

Every  male  head  in  France  might  have  been  in  dan- 
ger, without  much  foreign  outcry,  if  they  had  let  the 
mothers  alone;  but  when  they  shot  the  white  limbs  of 
the  Princess  Lamballe  out  of  a  gun,  and  gave  a  woman 
her  father's  blood  to  drink,  before  they  shed  her  own, 
human  nature  got  under  arms. 


254  BEATEN  PATHS,   OR 

Looking  at  it  from  the  royal  point  of  view,  and  re- 
flecting on  the  inconvenience  of  losing  one's  head  in 
the  prime  of  life,  the  taking  off  of  Louis  XVI.  and 
Marie  Antoinette  appears  the  concentrated  essence  of 
all  brutality;  but  wlien  one  considers  their  loose  ways 
of  wasting  money  on  their  pleasures,  knowing  that  the 
nation  was  bankrupt,  and  the  people  starving,  it  would 
seem  that  cutting  them  into  inch  pieces,  or  roasting 
them  at  a  slow  fire,  would  scarcely  meet  their  deserts. 
They  were  buried  without  a  prayer;  but  when  their 
sorrowful  daughter  came  back  with  the  other  Bourbons, 
she  was  comforted  by  seeing  an  "  Expiatory  Chapel " 
built  over  their  bones,  where  mass  is  performed  every 
day,  so  that  at  last  they  have  funeral  enough  to  atone 
for  the  temporary  loss. 

The  guillotine  has  been  replaced  by  an  Egyptian 
obelisk,  brought  from  Luxor  at  an  immense  cost ;  the 
mate  to  it  was  given,  by  the  Pacha  of  Egypt,  to  the 
English  government,  but  it  still  guards  the  tomb  of 
Rameses.  The  English  have  too  many  royal  children 
to  portion  off  to  afford  obelisks. 

Two  generous  fountains  spout  water  all  day  on  the 
old  blood-stains,  and  the  statues  of  eight  cities  of 
France  keep  guard  about  the  square. 

Strasbourg  sits  there  still,  though  she  has  gone  over 
to  Germany. 

"  I  suppose  that  name  will  be  crossed  out,"  I  said  to 
a  Frenchman,  as  we  passed  it. 

"  No,  madam,  we  shall  take  it  again.  Strasbourg  has 
only  gone  on  a  visit.     Her  home  is  in  France." 

Frenchmen  will  never  forget  how  to  fight  while  they 
can  go  to  mass  on  a  Sunday  noon  in  the  Hotel  des  In 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION.  255 

valides  — Napoleon's  hoQie  for  old  soldiers.  The  service 
is  nearly  all  music  —  so  grand  and  inspiriting  that  it 
would  make  a  war>horse  paw  the  ground.  The  old  sol- 
diers, gray-liaired  in  honor  and  wounds,  come  stumping 
in,  and  little  drummer-boys  take  the  place  of  choristers ; 
tattered  flags  taken  in  battle  hang  from  the  roof,  though 
the  original  flngs  taken  in  the  first  victories  of  Napo- 
leon were  needlessly  burned  by  his  brother  Joseph, 
when  he  heard  of  his  flight  from  Waterloo.  Beyond 
the  church,  and  under  the  gilded  dome,  lies  the  tomb 
of  Napoleon,  —  another  expiatory  chapel,  this  time  for 
English  outrage.  It  may  be  that  his  spirit  has  rest  on 
the  banks  of  the  Seine,  where  his  ashes  may  mingle 
with  that  of  his  olcf  lovei*s. 

Of  all  men  who  ever  lived,  he  was,  perhaps,  the  most 
beloved  of  his  own  sex.  Leaning  over  his  tomb,  one 
wishes,  more  than  ever,  that  the  battle  of  Waterloo 
had  gone  the  other  way.  If  only  Grouchy  had  come 
up  instead  of  Blucher!  But  there  is  no  stumbling- 
block  like  an  if ;  the  world  is  more  crowded  with  ifs 
than  with  people.  Pascal  hit  upon  an  odd  one  —  "  If 
Cleopatra's  nose  had  been  half  an  inch  shorter,  it  would 
have  changed  the  history  of  the  world." 

The  dome  of  the  Invalides  was  gilded  "because," 
said  Napoleon,  ''  the  Parisians  must  have  something  to 
look  at." 

In  this  paramount  necessity  of  French  happiness, 
"something  to  look  at,"  he  never  fniled  them.  It  seems 
to  me  that  the  secret  of  French  fickleness  and  ferocity 
lies  in  the  simple  fact,  that  they  look  for  their  pleasure 
outside  the  walls  of  home.  An  Englishman  may  be  a 
perfect  bear  in  his  business,  but  the  best  part  of  him  is 


256  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

sure  to  flower  out  at  home;  while  a  Freiichmnn  wastes 
no  sweetness  on  the  desert  air  of  his  own  house.  It  is 
a  French  fashion  that  never  goes  out  of  vogue,  to  be 
devoted  to  one's  chjjdren  ;  for  their  sake,  the  father  and 
mother  will  do  anything  but  love  each  other,  or  permit 
them  to  love  where  they  will.  It  is  the  universal  cus- 
tom for  parents  in  France  to  select  husbands  and  wives 
for  their  children  with  the  proper  amount  of  dowry. 
It  is  part  of  their  devotion  not  to  see  them  make  beg- 
gars of  themselves.  Their  marringes  are  not  merce- 
nary, but  suitable.  Madame  de  Sevigne  had  great 
difficulty  in  "settling"  that  beloved  daughter,  for 
whom  no  one  was  good  enough.  Her  final  choice  was 
a  mature  marquis,  who  had  been  tv^ice  married  already, 
which  certainly  proved  that  other  women  had  thought 
him  worth  having.  "  He  is  a  very  good  man,"  she 
writes,  "  and  very  gentlemanly  — ■  has  wealth,  rank, 
holds  a  high  office,  and  is  much  respected  by  the 
world.     What  more  is  necessary  ?  " 

Nothing,  O,  nothing,  sweet  Madame  Sevigne,  but  a 
grain  of  true  love  to  leaven  the  whole  lump. 

Life  is  not  worth  having  to  a  French  girl  till  she  is 
married ;  her  love  affiiirs  begin  then,  which  necessarily 
introduce  a  vile  and  polluting  influence  into  the  light 
literature  of  the  nation,  since  the  heroine  must  always 
be  a  married  woman,  and  the  hero,  not  her  husband. 

"It  is  to  be  feared,"  said  old  Fuller,  "that  those  who 
marry  where  they  do  not  love,  will  love  where  they  do 
not  marrv."  If  men  take  the  disease  of  love  in  the 
natural  way,  and  cure  themselves  by  marrying  their 
choice,  even  if  the  marriage  prove  unhappy,  the  mem- 
ory of  it    softens  and  chastens   all    their   lives;    but 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION'.  257 

love  turned  inward  on  itself,  becomes  a  fierce  yearning 
for  some  change  in  condition  or  estate,  since  one  can- 
not change  wives. 

I  once  heard  a  gnarled  old  sea  captain,  who  had 
sailed  all  the  waters  of  the  globe,  and  made  up  his 
opinions  of  men  and  things  on  every  shore,  lay  down 
the  law  on  this  matter.  His  brothei',  seventy  years 
old,  and  a  bachelor,  had  asked  his  advice  about  marry- 
ing a  lady  known  to  both.  "If  you  like  the  gal,  and 
she's  willin',  take  her,  and  say  no  more  about  it.  It's 
the  only  safe  rule  to  go  by  in  getting  married."  French 
people  Ibllow  all  rules  except  this  one,  and  it  makes 
them  "  unstable  as  water." 

The  Communists  burned  part  of  the  Tuileries,  and 
the  remainder  is  used  for  offices  in  the  business  of  th6 
Btate;  but  they  did  not  commit  the  unpardonable  sin 
—  they  spared  the  Louvre.  Royalty  and  despotism 
were  as  necessary  to  the  existence  of  the  Louvre  as  to 
that  of  the  Pyramids;  and  I  would  have  cried,  "Vive 
le  Roi "  with  the  rest  of  them  till  it  was  finished. 

The  Louvre  reminds  me  of  Tasso's  moon :  "  Every- 
thing was  there  that  is  to  be  met  with  on  earth,  except 
folly  in  the  raw  material,  for  that  is  never  exported." 
Its  two  great  shrines  are  the  Venus  de  Milo,  and  the 
Immaculate  Conception  by  Murillo.  The  Venus  stands 
alone  and  stately,  with  her  broken  arms,  in  a  room  by 
herself  It  seems  a  glaring  mistake  to  call  her  a  Venus 
at  all ;  it  looks  far  more  likely  that  she  is  the  statue  of 
"  Wingless  Victory,"  which  stood  in  one  of  the  Athe- 
nian temples,  and  was  hidden  in  the  island  of  Melos 
for  safety. 

In  the  Vienna  Exposition  of  1873,  some  one  has 
17 


258  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

made  a  copy  of  her  and  finished  it  with  arms  —  one 
hand  holds  a  raiiror,  into  which  she  is  gazing.  There 
is  no  need  to  ask  if  a  man  did  it;  a  woman  would  have 
known  better.  If  the  inexperienced  sculptor  had  ever 
seen  a  lovely  woman  looking  in  her  mirror,  to  see  if  her 
hair  is  parted  evenly,  or  if  her  looks  have  fallen  off 
since  she  looked  last,  he  would  never  have  created  such 
an  anachronism.  The  face  is  wholly  earnest,  with  not 
a  conscious  or  vain  line  in  it.  She  may  be  handsome, 
but  it  is  no  fault  of  hers.  She  is  a  woman  to  be  listened 
to,  not  looked  at;  a  Minerva,  rather  than  a  Venus. 
She  might  be  the  noble  head  of  an  ideal  "  Woman's 
College,"  like  Tennyson's  "Princess."  She  has  just 
uttered  some  high-born  thought;  the  thrill  and  glow  of 
it  is  yet  in  her  eyes,  and  her  expression  is,  "If  this  be 
treason,  make  the  most  of  it." 

No  picture  can  be  placed  in  the  Louvre  until  the 
artist  has  been  dead  ten  years —  long  enough  to  break 
the  influence  of  coteries,  which,  through  personal  preju- 
dice, might  pave  the  way  to  poor  pictures,  or  shut  out 
good  ones. 

The  Louvre  is  the  paradise  of  cherubs  —  they  can- 
not be  much  more  numerous  in  heaven.  They  are 
never  more  daintily  fashioned  than  in  two  old  pictures 
of  the  "Flight  into  Egypt,"  where  they  play  with  the 
child  Josus,  feeding  him  with  fruit  and  trimming  him 
with  roses.  In  another,  they  are  cooking  a  dinner  for 
a  saint,  w^ho  is  so  rapt  in  devotion,  that  he  takes  no 
heed  to  his  earthly  wants.  They  seem  much  at  home 
among  the  pots  and  pans. 

Rubens  has  a  gallery  of  his  own  in  the  Louvre,  and 
I  would  have  made  it  a  dark  one ;  he  never  paints  a 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  259 

woman  to  weigh  less  than  two  hundred  pounds,  forget- 
ting that  a  fat  woman  is  as  unpicluresque  as  a  bony 
cherub.  He  is  guilty  of  a  heavy  and  naked  procession 
in  honor  of  "Religion  and  Virtue,"  wliich  might  be 
called  the  "Dance  of  Luxury  and  Vice,"  without  an- 
other stroke  of  the  brush.  He  is  unsurpassed  in  paint- 
ing rear  views  of  babies  and  cherubs,  the  only  creatures 
to  whom  curves  of  unlimited  fat  are  becoming. 

Murillo's  pictures  are  always  lovely  while  he  deals 
with  virgins  and  saints;  but  when  his  genius  stoops  to 
beggar-boys  looking  for  fleas, —  which  one  must  admire 
partly  because  Murillo  painted  it,  and  partly  because 
it  is  so  natural,  —  it  goes  against  the  stomach  of  my 
sense.  Neither  fleas  nor  beggai-boys  should  have  any 
encouragement  to  repeat  themselves.  I  count  it  no 
credit  to  those  old  Dutch  artists,  that  they  could  paint 
an  old  woman's  wrinkles,  or  a  brass  kettle,  well,  when 
those  things  have  no  right  to  be  painted  at  all.  Only 
beautiful  things  should  be  made  immortal;  merely  to 
be  natural  is  a  thing  to  be  avoided,  since  it  is  as  often 
disgusting  as  attractive. 

Rembrandt's  pictures  have  an  odd  fascination ;  one 
keeps  looking  at  them  as  at  faces  with  deep-set  eyes. 
Webster  ought  to  have  been  painted  by  the  ghost  of 
Rembrandt,  and  he  would  have  looked  through  all 
time,  as  he  did  in  life,  wiser  than  any  man  ever  was. 

Hazlitt  quotes  Milton's  line  of  his  style  — 

**  He  stroked  the  raven  plume  of  darkness  till  it  smiled." 

It  somehow  fits  the  subject  of  his  criticism,  but  it  is  an 
unusually  trying  metaphor,  if  Milton  did  mix  it.  Wo- 
men may  smile  at  handsome  sable  plumes,  but  it  re- 
quires a  strong  imagination  to  see  them  smile  back. 


260  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

We  carried  a  catalogue  as  thick  as  a  family  Bible, 
and  mounted  a  sort  of  art-staircase,  the  pictures  grow- 
ing better  and  better  until  the  crown  room  is  reached ; 
here  is  the  "Tmmaeulnte  Conception"  —  "a  woman 
clothied  with  the  sun,  and  the  moon  under  her  feet,  and 
upon  her  head  a  crown  of  twelve  stars."  In  the  in- 
numerable copies,  the  cherubs  are  done  very  well,  but 
no  one  catches  the  right  look  from  the  Virgin  ;  only  the 
original  looks  into  heaven. 

RaphaeFs  "Beautiful  Gardener"  is  fresh  and  brilliant 
as  when  he  laid  the  last  soft  touch  on  her  drooping  eye- 
lids, and  set  her  up  to  dry  against  the  wall  of  his  studio. 
In  the  same  room  is  the  famous  "  Monna  Lisa,"  wlio 
turns  the  heads  of  all  artists.  She  was  the  wife  of  a 
Florentine  noble,  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci  worked  on 
this  portrait  four  years,  and  then  pronounced  it  unfin- 
ished. In  life  she  is  said  to  have  possessed  an  inde- 
finjible  chaim  that  drew  men  to  her  against  their  will ; 
when  their  fancy  was  once  tangled  in  the  wonderful 
cornel's  of  her  mouth,  they  could  never  escape.  But 
the  uneducated  eye  sees  little  comeliness;  one  learns 
to  admire  iier  by  continual  tasting,  as  one  learfis  to 
like  olives.  The  first  look  reminds  one  of  an  Indian 
squaw;  she  is  wholly  free  from  ornament;  she  has  no 
weapons  but  her  face  and  hands,  and  a  certain  assured 
calmness,  as  of  one  who  had  fathomed  this  life,  and 
could  afford  to  smile  at  it.  Only  men  can  tell  why 
they  make  a  fuss  over  faces  in  which  women  see  no 
beauty,  and  many  have  tried  to  tell  the  secret  of  their 
worship  of  the  Monna*Lisa. 

All  the  sweetest  words  in  the  language,  stirred  to  a 
froth  with  the  spoon  of  artistic  fancy,  are  yearly  offered 


^  A   WOMAN'S   VACATION.  261 

upon  her  altar.  "Whoever  has  seen  the  Monna  Lisa 
smile,"  says  Grimm,  "  will  be  followed  forever  by  that 
smile  as  by  Lear's  fury,  Hamlet's  melancholy,  and  Mac- 
beth's  remorse." 

A  woman-artist  had  studied  the  Monna  Lisa  till  she 
had  made  a  perfect  copy  about  six  inches  square.  She 
only  asked  three  hundred  gold  dollars  for  it.  I  hope 
that  the  Monna  Lisa,  wherever  her  spirit  w^anders, 
knows  that  her  copied  head  brings  such  a  price  three 
hundred  years  after  her  death ;  a  woman  must  appre- 
ciate that  if  she  were  ever  so  dead.  It  would  be  one 
of  the  comforts  not  "  scorned  of  devils." 

The  famous  pictures  have  all  a  row  of  copyists  before 
them,  like  devotees  before  an  altar;  and  some  of  them 
spend  their  whole  Jives  in  repeating  one  picture  over 
and  over.  It  seems  like  dull  music ;  but,  then,  every- 
body's music  is  dull  except  our  own. 

The  Louvre  inspires  the  fear  that  the  world  will  get 
too  full  of  works  of  art,  and  some  time,  in  the  next 
thousand  years,  there  will  be  a  bonfire  of  pictures  and 
statues,  by  general  consent,  to  give  room  for  new  genius 
to  spread  itself. 

New  and  endless  rooms  spring  up  as  by  magic,  and 
give  one  at  last  that  ache  of  the  mind  which  is  woi-se 
than  any  bodily  strain.  When  I  could  endure  no  more 
it  relieved  me  to  look  at  a  gigantic  face  in  bas-relief, 
which  has  its  mouth  stretched  in  a  perpetual  yawn.  It 
was  a  marble  criticism  that  agreed  with  me. 

The  foirest  Venus  ceases  to  be  fair  when  the  eye  is 
clogged  with  innumerable  Venuses.  Aphrodite  parting 
her  shell,  and  rising  from  the  waves,  must  have  been  the 
loveliest  sight  in  the  world  ;  but  when  she  does  it  every 
half  hour,  one  wishes  she  had  been  drowned  in  the  act. 


262  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

The  crowd  constantly  passing  through  the  galleries 
is  well  sprinkled  with  white  caps  and  blue  blouses  —  it 
is  a  free  Art-school  to  them. 

We  inquired  for  the  Museum  of  Sovereigns,  contain- 
ing relics  of  all  the  French  kings;  but  the  guide  as- 
sured us  that  it  existed  no  longer.  "France,  being  a 
republic,  does  not  wish  to  be  reminded  that  she  has 
ever- had  a  king."  We  groaned  over  our  disappoint- 
ment, and  the  guide  said,  "Come  next  year,"  with  the 
inevitable  shrug  which  means  everything  and  nothing. 
Only  a  silver  statue  of  Napoleon,  in  a  room  studded 
with  golden  bees,  marks  wh-ere  his  collection  was 
placed;  the  cradle  of  the  King  of  Rome  is  hidden 
under  a  dingy  cloth.  The  rooms  of  the  ancient  kings 
are  covered  with  an  oaken  wainscoting,  delicate  as 
hice;  and  the  only  furniture  remaining  are  vases  so 
large  that  a  couple  of  life-size  babies  serve  for  handles, 
andvmight  be  drowned  in  them. 

My  last  day  in  Paris  was  given  to  Versailles,  a  palace 
of  such  gilded  and  painted  perfection,  that  no  creature 
made  of  the  dust  of  the  earth  could  ever  feel  at  home 
in  it. 

It  is  the  monument  of  Louis  XIV.,  built  by  himself, 
as  some  ostentatious  souls  cannot  trust  their  relatives' 
estimate  of  them,  and  buy  their  own  tombstone.  It  is 
a  type  of  his  life  in  its  splendid  halls  and  galleries,  and 
its  little  back  passages  and  secret  stairs.  He  called  and 
believed  himself  a  "Grand  Monarch;"  but  his  friends 
found  him  cruel,  sneaking,  and  mean.  He  set  the 
fashion  of  worshipping  himself,  and  conferred  dishonor 
as  it  had  been  high  favor.  He  was  specially  cruel  to 
women ;  but  it  must  be  confessed  that,  first  and  last, 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  263 

they  led  him  a  hard  life,  as  they  do  every  man  who 
puts  himself  in  their  power.  We  can  feel  a  respectable 
emotion  towards  only  two  of  them,  the  first  and  the 
last  —  pity  for  Mademoiselle  de  Valliere  and  respect 
for  Madame  de  Mnintenon. 

"  She  was  ashamed  of  being  a  mistress  —  of  being  a 
mother  —  of  being  a  duchess,"  says  Madame  Sevigne 
of  the  former;  "never  shall  we  see  the  like  of  her 
again."  She  was  not  a  perfect  beauty  by  any  means; 
she  halted  in  her  walk,  her  mouth  was  too  large,  and  she 
was  marked  with  the  small-pox ;  but  she  had  a  look  so 
tender  and  modest  withal,  that  one  could  not  help  lov- 
ing her  at  first  sight.  She  was  the  queen,  for  whom 
Versailles  was  made  so  splendid  a  throne.  She  alone 
loved  the  king  for  himself^  but  she  was  always  ashamed 
of  it ;  and  when  Bossuet  came  to  tell  her  of  the  death 
of  her  son,  she  cried  out,  *'  Why  must  I  mourn  his 
death,  when  I  have  never  ceased  to  mourn  for  his 
birth?" 

The  real  queen  of  France  looked  on  the  gilded  and 
evil  doings  of  her  court,  and  her  husband,  with  a  seared 
indifference.  When  she  was  told  that  the  king  had 
taken  a  new  mistress,  she  said  that  was  the  old  one's 
business  —  not  hers. 

Perhaps  Madame  de  Maintenon  was  equally  to  be 
pitied  in  that  she  had  to  bear  with  the  querulous  old 
age  of  Louis ;  he  was  the  most  unamusable  of  men, 
and  she  had  to  provide  him  with  conversation ;  but  he 
could  give  her  power,  and  that  was  all  she  lived  for. 
She  had  been  so  intimate  with  misery  in  her  yoiith^ 
that  she  wore  it  as  easily  as  an  old  garment. 

Versailles  heard  all  these  feminine  secrets,  and  keepa 


264  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

them  still,  written  in  invisible  ink  on  its  walls ;  only 
the  student  of  French  history  makes  them  stare  through 
the  gilding.  The  most  important  one  was  the  private 
marriage  of  Madame  de  Maintenon  to  the  king,  and  her 
wearing  disappointment  when  no  blandishments  of  hers 
could  induce  him  to  acknowledge  it  publicly. 

His  confessor,  Pere  La  Chaise,  with  her  help,  per- 
suaded the  king  to  revoke  the  edict  of  Nantes,  which 
let  loose  fire  and  sword  on  the  best  part  of  his  subjects, 
the  Huguenots,  who  carried  their  sober  industry  into 
other  countries,  like  the  Pilgrims  of  New  England.  It 
is  but  poetic  justice  that  the  great  cemetery  of  Paris, 
the  gathering-place  of  corpses,  should  be  named  for 
this  Jesuit  father. 

After  the  Revolution,  when  Napoleon  came  to  look 
at  what  was  left  of  Vei*sailles,  he  regretted  that  the 
mob  had  not  wholly  ruined  it ;  but  he  repaired  it  for  a 
national  show,  never  living  in  it  himself.  In  the  great 
Hall  of  Battles,  he  quite  wipes  out  the  obsolete  glory 
of  Louis  XIV.,  who  won  his  victories  by  proxy. 

It  is  a  little  surprise  to  American  eyes  to  see  the  sur- 
render of  Yorktown  reckoned  among  French  successes, 
and  Washington  playing  second  fiddle  to  Count  Ro- 
chambeau. 

In  this  gallery  I  counted  twenty-eight  priests  moving 
about  in  the  crowd,  whispering  into  its  ears  the  anti- 
dote to  the  Napoleonic  fever,  inflamed  by  these  pictures. 
They  were  working  in  the  interest  of  the  Bourbons ; 
but  the  Count  Chambord,  with  his  white  flag,  is  a  dull 
old  king  to  conjure  with,  compared  with  Napoleon  wav- 
ing the  tri-color  out  of  the  canvas. 

The  town  of  Versailles  seems  to  grovel  at  the  feet 


A   WOMAN'S    VACATION,  265 

of  the  palace,  as  all  France  did  at  the  feet  of  its  builder. 
The  garden  avenues  and  vistas  are  so  contrived  that 
there  seems  to  be  nothing  in  the  world  but  the  palace 
of  Versailles.  Even  the  chapel  was  so  planned  that 
the  king's  seat  looked  down  on  the  preacher's  desk. 
At  the  funeral  of  Louis  XIY.,  Massillon  proclaimed 
"God  is  great,  my  brethren,  a/z J  God  alone^  which, 
in  that  place,  had  the  effect  of  a  piece  of  news. 

The  guard  demanded  our  passports  to  enter  the 
chapel,  but  a  franc  answered  the  same  purpose. 

We  were  allowed  to  see  the  state  cairiages,  used  at 
coronations,  on  a  forbidden  day,  because  we  were  Amer- 
icans ;  it  is  as  good  as  a  season  ticket  all  over  France 
to  be  an  American. 

We  wandered  about  the  lovely  gardens  of  Marie 
Antoinette's  farm  of  the  Little  Trianon,  and  came  una- 
wares upon  the  dairy  and  thatched  cottage  where  she 
made  believe  to  be  happy  in  humble  life ;  but  it  was  a 
kind  of  fiirming  which  obliges  the  owner  to  do  some 
other  business  to  8U23i)ort  it,  wheiens  Louis  XVI.  never 
could  do  anything  well  except  locksmithing.  He  was 
the  prince  of  hesitaters;  and  the  bright,  haughty  Marie 
Antoinette  must  have  been  teriiblv  tried  with  him. 
He  had  not  even  sense  enough  to  fall  in  love  with  her 
till  they  had  been  seven  years  married. 

Napoleon  established  Maria  Louisa,  his  second  wife, 
in  the  Little  Trianon,  an  ill-omened  place  to  Austrian 
archduchesses  ;  she  must  sometimes  have  put  a  steady- 
ing hand  to  her  head,  when  she  was  reminded  of  the 
fall  of  her  aunt,  who  had  lived  there  before  her. 

It  is  said  that  Maria  Louisa  cared  for  nothing  but 
horseback   rx(M-cise  and  four   nie.ils  a  d  y ;    e\\  \\   lu^r 


266  BEATEN  PATHS,  OR 

son  did  not  interest  her.  How  tedious  must  her 
society  have  been  to  Napoleon,  after  the  charming 
Creole  ways  of  Josephine  !  They  had  the  same  dress- 
makers, but  Napoleon  never  ceased  wondering  why 
Josephine  had  always  made  so  much  more  elegant  an 
appearance.  "Josephine  had  lost  all  her  teeth,"  says 
Madame  Junot,  "  but  she  still  had  the  loveliest  smile  in 
the  world." 

Fair  France  would  lose  half  its  fairness  to  Americans 
if  the  reign  of  Napoleon  were  crossed  out  of  it.  Ver- 
sailles was  too  magnificent,  even  for  him,  and  he  gave 
it  to  the  nation  with  a  grand  air,  as  if  they  had  not 
owned  it  before. 

These  old  palaces,  too  gorgeous  for  a  liome,  but  not 
for  treasure-houses,  are  a  lovely  possession  to  have  in  a 
country:  it  is  like  having  an  extravagant  grandmother, 
who  ruins  herself  in  diamonds ;  her  weakness  may  have 
made  great  havoc  in  the  family  at  the  time,  and  nearly 
brought  the  grandfather  to  think  of  divorce  ;  but  when 
the  old  folks  are  dead,  the  diamonds  remain  an  unspeak- 
able treasure  and  distinction  to  their  descendants. 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  267 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


HOMEWARD    BOUIS^D. 


"  O,  thrice  happy  are  they  wlio  plant  cabbages  !  Wlien  they  hare 
one  foot  on  the  ground,  the  other  is  not  far  off."  —  Rabelais. 

MY  guardian  angel  must  liave  been  "asleep,  or 
gone  a  journey,"  when  she  permitted  me  to 
cross  the  English  Channel,  without  a  friend  to  groan 
to,  by  way  of  Dieppe  and  Newhaven.  Only  two  hours' 
sail  divides  Dover  and  Calais;  but  the  misery  is  so 
concentrated  that  all  who  travel  that  way  are  certain, 
as  was  Queen  Mary  of  bloody  memory,  that  Calais 
will  be  found,  after  death,  written  on  their  hearts.  I 
had  a  vain  conceit  that  the  torture  would  be  somewhat 
diluted  in  a  whole  night's  passage  between  Dieppe  and 
Newhaven ;  but  to  err  is  human.  In  the  former,  one 
dies  but  once ;  in  the  latter,  one  does  it  over  and  over. 
The  little  cabin  might  have  been  a  box  of  sardines  for 
the  close  packing  of  its  contents.  The  stewardess  did 
her  best,  and  "an  angel  could  no  moie;"  but  it  is  the 
stillness  of  despair,  not  content,  that  finally  settles 
down  on  us  like  a  pall.  Stranded  among  us  is  a  baby, 
two  months  old,  very  red  in  the  face,  and  wild  in  the 
eyes,  but  not  otherwise  aggressive.   The  wretched  nurse 


268  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

hns  just  strength  enough  left  to  aim  at  its  mouth  a 
long  rubber  tube  with  a  bottle  of  milk  at  the  other 
end.  The  baby  catches  it  by  a  miracle,  and  then  we 
all  fall  back  into  a  sort  of  heaving  silence. 

"That  child  is  drawing  in  nothing  but  air;  it  don't 
get  the  milk  at  all,"  says  my  next  neighbor,  in  a  deep 
whisper.  "I've  had  eight,  and  brought  them  all  up  by 
hand,  and  I  hnow^ 

"Ah,  well,"  I  say,  brutally,  "it  isn't  our  baby." 

"  No ;  but  it  will  be  our  torment  when  the  child  be- 
gins to  howl." 

The  mother  of  eight  was  right,  and  outraged  nature 
revenged  itself  in  less  than  an  hour. 

"I  told  you  so,"  said  my  neighbor;  and  the  comfort 
of  having  her  prophecy  come  to  pass  sustained  her 
through  the  tempest  that  followed;  but  I  was  driven 
on  deck,  where  a  crowed  of  hopeless  men  lay  about 
loosely,  like  bundles  that  were  waiting  to  be  claimed 
by  the  owner.  In  the  palace  of  the  Luxembourg  there 
is  a  picture  of  Dante  and  Virgil  crossing  the  Styx  in  a 
boat,  wdiich  is  surrounded  by  swarms  of  lost  spirits.  I 
did  not  notice  it  much  at  the  time ;  but  the  agony  of 
those  distorted  faces  came  back  to  thicken  the  air  as  I 
assisted  at  this  orgy  of  seasickness.  What  a  comfort 
it  is  to  hear  even  swearing  in  one's  native  language  as 
the  boat  rubs  against  English  ground  !  We  are  like  a 
train  of  ghosts  as  we  file  into  the  station.  The  baby 
is  pale,  but  composed,  which  convinces  me  that  it  is  a 
girl  —  a  boy-baby,  under  such  abuse  and  neglect,  would 
have  committed  suicide  before  morning. 

As  we  roll  along  towards  London  in  a  softly-cush- 
ioned cnr,  an  Englishmnn  begins  to  "speer  at"  us  in  a 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  269 

general  wfiy  about  our  president  and  his  "third  term ;" 
but  we  have  ceased  to  be  Americans  —  we  are  only 
human  beings.  General  Grant  may  live  and  die  at  the 
White  House,  and  be  buried  under  the  piazza,  for 
aught  we  care.  We  even  smile  at  him  when  he  says, 
"How  much  more  stable  and  respectable  your  govern- 
ment would  be  if  you  would  remodel  it  into  a  limited 
monarchy,  like  the  English  one,  and  invite  one  of  our 
peers  —  Lord  'Darby,'  for  instance  —  to  rule  over  you! 
He  would  never  take  the  office,  though ! " 

"No,  he  never  would,"  we  repeat  faintly,  and  the 
Englishman  gives  us  up. 

It  is  good  to  look  at  the  heavy,  stolid  English  nav- 
vies, as  they  lean  on  their  pickaxes  along  the  line  of 
railroad.  They  are  soaked  through  and  through  with 
beer,  and  the  very  stones  must  needs  cry  out  at  them 
before  they  will  see  that  their  government  does  not 
recoo^nize  their  risrht  to  be  men  and  brethren  with  the 
rest  of  their  world.  Thei/  are  perfectly  content  to 
have  their  thinking  done  for  them;  but  the  French 
laborers  are  wiry  and  temperate,  and  give  you  slanting 
glances  out  of  eyes  that  seem  sharpened  to  a  point,  as 
if  they  might  have  a  small  store  of  vitriol  at  home,  or 
a  polished  dagger  waiting  for  an  occasion. 

Then  comes  the  swift  journey  from  London  to  Liver- 
pool through  a  long  flower-garden,  which  makes  one 
wonder  how  so  small  a  country  could  have  made  such 
a  prodigious  noise  in  the  world.  We  are  again  on  the 
doorstep  of  the  old  world,  and  the  door  will  soon  be 
shut  in  our  faces.  In  the  last  interview,  as  in  the  first, 
it  is  the  rule  to  buy  an  umbrella.  "  I  cannot  see,"  says 
my  landlady,  "what  your  people  can  want  of  so  many 


270  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

umbrellas.  It  never  rains  in  your  country  without  let- 
ting you  know  a  week  beforehand." 

The  homeward  passage  across  the  Atlantic  is  a  trifle 
worse  —  a  lower  depth,  a  night  without  stars — than 
the  voyage  out.  It  is  then  that  faithful  Memory 
bestirs  herself,  and  rakes  up  from  forgotten  hoards 
every  collision  and  fire  at  sea  and  bursted  boiler  that 
has  ever  come  within  her  range.  When  Mr.  Jefferson 
said,  "  How  much  have  cost  us  the  things  that  never 
happened!"  he  must  have  had  home  voyages  in  his 
mind.  As  I  go  down  to  my  little  inside  room,  secured 
at  the  last  moment,  I  fear  to  look  in  the  face  of  the 
strange  woman  who  is  to  share  it  with  me ;  but  I  per- 
ceive at  once,  in  her  deprecating  air,  that  she  is  equally 
afraid  of  me.  "Which  berth  do  you  prefer?"  I  ask, 
in  my  mildest  tone.  "  Very  well,  I  thank  you,"  she 
replies,  and  I  do  not  pursue  the  subject;  in  fact,  I 
never  pursue  any  subject  with  her,  unless  I  desire  to 
communicate  my  views  to  the  whole  ship's  company; 
and  I  put  it  to  the  sympathizing  reader  who  has  fol- 
lowed me  thus  far,  w^hether,  in  a  windowless  room 
with  a  deaf  room-mate,  I  might  not  as  well  have  been 
a  monk  of  La  Trappe,  who  takes  a  vow  of  perpetual 
silence,  and  sleeps  in  his  coffin  eyery  night. 

As  I  could  have  no  "feast  of  reason  or  flow  of  soul " 
in  my  own  room,  it  followed  that  I  took  a  deep  interest 
in  my  neighbors.  On  the  other  side  of  a  thin  partition 
were  two  old  men,  who  had  more  to  say,  and  said  it 
oftener,  than  any  two  w  omen  that  I  ever  knew.  One 
was  a  widower,  and  I  devoutly  wished  the  other  had 
been  so  too.  Day  and  night  his  cry  was,  "If  I  could 
only  see  my  wife   once   more,  I   should   be   happy." 


A    WOMAN'S    VACATION.  271 

When  remimJed  that  she  was  much  better  off  where 
she  was,  he  would  desperately  declare  that  he  did  not 
want  her  to  be  better  off  than  himself,  and  I  wondered 
whether  this  was  a  universal  masculine  sentiment,  or 
something  peculiar  to  him. 

In  the  deadest  part  of  a  rough  night  I  heard  him 
moaning  over  the  profanity  of  the  sailors,  lest  it  should 
bring  us  to  shipwreck;  but  his  room-mate  comforted 
him  and  me  with  the  certainty  that  no  ship  ever  was, 
or  will  be,  worked  without  hard  swearing  —  nothing 
else  will  straighten  a  wet  rope. 

These  old  men,  with  others  of  that  ilk,  kept  the  clos- 
est accounts  of  the  days  and  the  distance;  but  no  two 
ever  came  out  alike.  The  women  were  never  so  far 
gone  in  boredom  as  to  be  beguiled  into  arithmetic. 
They  have  a  fatal  habit  of  telling  the  contents  of  their 
trunks,  and  boasting  of  their  bargains,  when  they  know 
well  that  the  passenger  who  sits  muffled  in  his  shawl 
at  their  backs  may  be  an  officer  of  customs  in  disguise. 
Going  over,  the  air  was  full  of  hope  and  expectation; 
coming  back,  it  is  heavy  with  retrospection,  more  or 
less  tinged  with  disappointment. 

The  only  pnrty  over  whom  contentment  brooded  like 
a  dove  was  a  company  of  five  mature  maidens,  who 
had  chosen  single  blessedness  as  the  better  part,  and 
were  inclined  to  look  down  on  those  imperfectly  consti- 
tuted women,  who  cannot  be  happy  without  a  husband 
and  children.  They  were  more  akin  to  the  oak  than 
to  the  ivy.  They  had  not  been  beautiful  in  their  best 
estate;  but  so  serene,  resolute,  and  self-poised  were 
they,  that  it  seemed  this  world  had  no  more  to  give 
them.     Their   lives    are   full-orbed   with   culture   and 


272  BEATEN  PATHS,    OR 

travel.  How  superior  they  are  to  a  lonely  young 
mother,  who  had  been  sent  abroad  to  recruit  from  her 
family  cares,  and  was  now  going  home  paler  than  when 
she  went  away !  All  Europe  had  been  to  her  but  a 
line  of  post-offices,  in  which  she  might  learn  that  the 
baby  had  a  double-tooth,  or  that  scarlet  fever  was  sus- 
pected in  the  neighborhood  of  her  treasures.  She  often 
held  an  open  book  before  her,  but  she  never  turned  a 
leaf;  and  any  one  curious  in  the  matter  might  catch 
a  glimpse  over  her  shoulder  of  a  photograph  of  two 
moon-ficed  children,  while  the  single  sisters  read  inde- 
fatigably  in  every  language  but  their  own.  They  were 
as  little  moved  by  seasickness  as  by  the  other  ills  that 
feminine  flesh  is  heir  to.  One  of  them  knitted  for  eleven 
days  on  a  bit  of  green  wool  through  all  weathers,  and 
as  I  watched  this  bilious  piece  of  work  grow  long,  I 
seemed  to  see  a  time,  far  off,  but  approaching,  when  it 
shall  be  a  matter  of  course  for  this  sort  of  women  to 
select  and  marry  gentle,  timorous,  unsophisticated  men, 
and  guide  them  safely  through  the  perils  of  this  world. 
Longfellow  speaks  as  one  having  authority  when  he 

says,— 

"  It  is  the  fate  of  a  woman 
Long  to  be  patient  and   silent,  to  wait  like  a  ghost  that  is 

speechless, 
Till  some  questioning  voice  dissolves  the  spell  of  its  silence ;  '* 

but  in  that  day,  when  women  have  ceased  to  "  wait," 
these  verses,  with  a  thousand  other  harpings  on  the 
same  string,  will  sound  like  the  fancies  of  a  distem- 
pered brain.  The  old  poets  will  have  to  be  weeded  of 
their  follies. 

Only  once  did  this  pioneer  band  show  the  weakness 


A   WOMAN'S  VACATION.  273 

of  their  sex.  Four  of  them  were  sitting  at  breakfast, 
and  the  youngest  and  comeliest  remained  in  her  room. 
My  next  door  neighbor  looked  along  the  line  atten- 
tively. "Where's  the  pretti/  one  of  your  party?"  he 
asked  —  and  if  looks  could  slay,  he  would  never  again  y 
have  beheld  the  wife  he  yearned  for. 

The]/  lay  unmoved  in  their  beds  when  a  great  wave 
poured  down  through  the  sky-lights  into  the  state- 
rooms, and  set  everybody's  boots  afloat  like  a  fleet  of 
boats.  Neither  did  they  scream  when  the  father  of  all 
rats  walked  down  the  passage  to  see  what  had  hap- 
pened. It  was  a  positive  comfort  to  hear  the  shrill 
voice  of  the  old-fashioned  sort  of  woman  crying  out 
for  her  shoes.  "O,  we  are  all  going  to  the  bottom  — 
give  me  my  shoes  —  I  must  have  my  shoes!"  and  the 
grave  voice  of  ker  husband  replying,  "Isabella,  recol- 
lect yourself!  .  People  who  are  going  to  the  bottom 
have  no  need  of  shoes."  In  the  hereafter,  when  our 
children  go  abroad  and  the  watei*s  overwhelm  them,  it 
will  be  the  woman,  who  will  turn  out  to  rescue  the 
floating  shoes,  and  calmly  advise  her  nervous  husband 
to  recollect  himself. 

The  long  lane  turns  at  last.  There  comes  a  white 
morning  when  all  our  world  goes  on  deck  to  see  the 
great  steamer  pull  up  at  the  wharf,  like  an  animal 
guided  by  reins.  It  is  like  that  other  resurrection  at 
Liverpool,  save  that  a  certain  sense  of  responsibility 
lengthens  every  woman's  fice,  a  liaunting  thought  of  • 
pearl,  and  coral,  and  carved  work,  and  shining  silk, 
which  were  things  of  beauty  in  the  buying,  and  will 
be  joys  forever  in  the  wearing,  unless  the  custom-house 
18 


274  BEATEN  PATHS. 

swallows  them  uj^,  leaving  only  a  great  remorse  in  their 
place. 

At  the  last  moment  I  go  down  once  more  into  the 
depths,  and  I  hear  my  ancient  neighbor  say,  as  he  puts 
a  fee  into  the  hands  of  the  steward,  "Make  a  good  use 
of  it,  my  boy;  don't  waste  it;"  and  that  is  the  last  I 
know  of  him  for  this  world. 

An  inundation  of  friends  pours  over  the  side,  and 
the  pale  mother  rapidly  dissolves  into  tears  of  joy ;  but 
the  ^\Q  Vestals,  who  are  pledged  to  tend  forever  the 
sacred  fire  of  literature,  walk  on  shore  as  calmly  as 
they  sailed  the  sea.  They  have  brought  home  great 
store  of  wisdom,  which  they  will  air  at  their  clubs  and 
sift  through  magazines;  but  the  mother,  from  all  the 
cathedrals  and  pictures  of  the  old  w^orld,  has  drawn 
but  two  great  convictions'that  will  never  depart  from 
her.  First,  that  Raphael  must  have  known  children 
like  hers,  when  he  painted  the  two  cherubs  that  lean 
on  their  elbows  out  of  heaven,  in  the  Sistine  Madonna; 
and  second,  that  when  the  Psalmist  said,  "Mark  the 
perfect  man,"  he  foresaw  the  American  husband. 


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